


cold hands

by honeyteeth



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Overworking, POV Alternating, Romance, Short, Sickfic, but she isnt like. an oc or anything. shes just there lmao so sorry if that's annoying :-[, theres a background character that isnt canon (bc idk who the hell yata is yet lawl), yet another super self indulgent one el em a oh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 100,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyteeth/pseuds/honeyteeth
Summary: Zenigata, much to his disdain, has been temporarily assigned a new case that leaves him swimming in nothing but paperwork and little else. Meanwhile, Lupin is left bored and unmotivated now that Pops isn't there to chase him, and although he denies it, he certainly notices the inspector's constant state of fatigue.
Relationships: Arsène Lupin III/Zenigata Kouichi, Ishikawa Goemon XIII/Jigen Daisuke
Comments: 132
Kudos: 197





	1. interpol's burnout

There’s something funny about the analog clock hanging on the dull, white wall behind inspector Koichi Zenigata, glass surface reflecting a harsh glare from the ever-buzzing, bright fluorescent lights up above. Each tiny, almost inaudible click, each  _ tok… tok… tok…  _ that proves that seconds are going by seems to be spreading further and further apart, ‘til time begins to slow to a dreadful, ever-lasting crawl, one that keeps the inspector glancing nervously over his shoulder, one that makes him feel absolutely, positively  _ certain  _ that somebody is tampering with the damned device itself. 

For the umpteenth time in the span of what was probably five or so minutes, he spun around in his old, beat-up swivel chair, the one his boss had found for him in storage because he wasn’t entirely worth company money on a new one, eyes flickering over the numbers, brain absently reminding him of the “little hand big hand” lesson he had been taught when he was a child. He went over it in his head, expression dull and tired.

For the umpteenth time in the span of what was probably five or so minutes, he turned back to his desk, picking up his pencil which had been warmed by his shaky fingers, the wood leaving dents in his skin because he pressed far too hard as he scribbled numbers and names into legal documents that contained a case he was far from solving. 

It was small, or at least that’s how it started. A simple robbery, really, that escalated into something just a little bit more, a little bit too intense, a little bit messy. 

See, the suspects were a couple from Britain-- Gertrude and Phillip Barnett (probably  _ the  _ most British set of names the inspector had ever heard in all of his forty-five years of living)-- and they had been targeting local fat cats and all of their valuables, nothing completely unheard of. They were fairly talented, yes, and quick to work, but Zenigata didn’t see why  _ he  _ had to hop onto the case, at least not until he learned what had happened to rouse so much upheaval. 

One night, just about three weeks ago, the two got... creative and burned this enormous, castle-esque mansion down to the damn ground, injuring thirteen servants and killing the lady of the house, as she had gotten caught beneath a wooden beam adorned with flames. It was a grim case, and Zenigata had been called into work early the next day, being shown by a sleep-deprived commissioner footage of the house ablaze. It raged bright orange and red like an inferno, and how a mere  _ pair  _ of people were able to pull off such an enormous feat was beyond the inspector.

Since then, they had stolen from three more homes, and, after their first taste of arson, were absolutely ravenous for more. News stations all across Japan were hollering and yapping about the British pyromaniacs, and Mr. and Mrs. Barnett continued going from CEO to model to celebrity, leaving a scorching trail of stolen jewels and burnt-black architecture in their wake.

This left Zenigata at the office, going over paperwork and evidence and so on and so forth, charged with the duty of finding out where their hideout could possibly be (as, apparently, it was impossible to find). This obviously meant he had been temporarily pulled from the Lupin case, and no longer had control over his team. Instead, he worked under somebody he hadn’t ever met before, had his crew taken from him, and was forced onto the backburner, something he hated more than  _ anything.  _ The guy couldn’t sit still to save his damned life.

Agent Brandy, as she liked to be called, otherwise known as Ms. Hara, was a single woman in her sixties, Zenigata would bargain mid to late, and four feet eleven inches of pure malice. She wore this thick red lipstick that always stuck to her teeth and this bright, bright blue eyeshadow smudged with the artistic vision of abstract painter Pablo Picasso in the creases of her piercing, grey eyes. Rings the size of damned golf balls it seemed adorned most of her leathery fingers, fake rhinestones clacking around every time she moved her sharp, well-manicured claws. Her hair, dyed a bright orange, always sat atop her head in this rat’s nest of a bun, one that always seemed to contain pencils and pens that held it together and kept it from completely falling apart in a fizzy mess over her broad shoulders. She was chubby, sharply dressed, and more explosive than an active volcano. Agent Brandy was not a force to be reckoned with. 

Originally, Zenigata had simply told the commissioner that no, he would not work under her guidance to catch Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, voice firm and chest puffed as he insisted that he and his team stick to Lupin’s case. His demeanor quickly changed, however, when money got involved. If he didn’t agree to lay off of Lupin for a while and look into this arson-robbery combo, his pay would be docked. 

He had been beaten and was now staying late every night to read between the lines of their heists, trying to piece together a puzzle that he was nowhere near solving. 

“Burning the midnight oil again, Inspector?” A friendly voice from behind Zenigata made him jump in his seat, back shooting ramrod straight and hand going stiff, which of course caused him to draw an enormous black streak of ink across his papers. There was a pause, an awkward silence, so to speak, as he slowly looked over his shoulder, mouth drawn into a straight line, eyes tired and unamused. 

“...Hi, Ms. Takeda,” he grumbled, as the young woman clamped a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to hide her laughter. Though her lips read playful, her eyes read guilty, and Zenigata’s expression softened as he turned back to his work. “yes, I’m working late again tonight. You headed home?” He asked, crossing out what he had written and rewriting it, black ink staining the bottom of his pinkie finger. 

“Yes, sir!” She smiled, leaning casually against his desk, taking a bite of the honeybun she had recently purchased from the vending machine. “I gotta be home as quick as I can, my girl just aced her winter exams. Top scores in her class!” 

“Really, now?” Zenigata asked, smiling lightly, remembering the hassle of preparing for the finals that occurred just before the holidays. He’d be up with Toshiko real late during those intense December nights, trying to help her solve algebra problems at the kitchen table, both of them too tired to think but too determined to stop. She always ended up scoring average. He was proud anyway, and always kept her graded papers much to the poor girl’s embarrassment (somewhere, tucked into the back of his closet was a long-forgotten box full of her report cards and exam scores). 

“Mmhmm, she’s worked hard for this. You wouldn’t believe the cramming that she went through near the end,” 

“I bet,” Zenigata responded absently, circling something that he found a little suspicious in the margins of the Barnetts’ last calling card. There seemed to be a few moments where one of them was going to say something, to continue the conversation, but silence came more naturally, making both of them pause in their activities and just awkwardly… sit there for a second or two.

“...Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Ms. Takeda replied cheerily, taking one more bite of her honeybun before placing it atop Zenigata’s desk. Halfway out of its plastic wrapping, it stuck to the wood, glaze and crumbs smearing just a little. “you take the rest of that, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat all day. Take care, Mr. Zenigata!” As she talked, she covered her mouth, as it was still full, and her eyes were sparkling with that tell-tale going-home-after-a-long-day look. One that Zenigata wished with every bone in his body that he was wearing. Right now. God, he just wanted to go  _ home. _

And then, just like that, she gave a curt, polite little bow and began walking away, black heels clicking against the hardwood floor, and Zenigata was alone with the analog clock ticking away lazily on the wall behind him once more. 

With a soft sigh, he picked up the honeybun that had been left for him, wiping off some of the sticky glaze on his desk with the back of his hand while he took a bite, eyes locked once more on the paper in front of him. The dough stuck to the roof of his mouth, glaze coating his tongue, sugar-sweet, and a little too intense for his tastes, but he didn’t mind, not really. 

The most recent sighting of Mr. and Mrs. Barnett had been at a professional baseball player’s condo in Tokyo. They swiped of all of his goods, and then, of course, set the whole place ablaze, before disappearing. Poor guy lost a lot of his belongings, many irreplaceable, but Zenigata didn’t feel  _ too  _ bad for him. Millionaires didn’t really need the sympathy of broke Interpol agents. 

The  _ next  _ sighting was at Kyoto about a week later, where a big gambling champion, some Italian businessman, had moved into his winter home-- can you imagine? Enough money for  _ two  _ homes in  _ two  _ different countries?-- and was practically sweeping every casino clean in the area. His place had managed to be salvaged but required almost seven million yen’s worth of repairs, which Zenigata supposed was no challenge for the gambler. 

He read the next few sightings with furrowed brows and a chewed lip, scanning over every page, every picture, every little detail that could’ve gone unread. He soaked up each headline of each article with scholarly concentration-- “British Couple Eviscerates Fukui CEO,” “The Barnett Band Spotted in Aomori,” “Yamagata’s Richest Man Set Ablaze!”

None of it was connected. There were no secret codes or hidden messages, and no pattern whatsoever to their locations. They simply showed up, took what they wanted, dumped kerosene over the whole operation, and then left quickly and quietly. Zenigata frowned deeply, leaning back in his chair, pawing around at his desk ‘til his fingers, which were now red and blistered from spending weeks writing at his desk, lightly touched the ashtray that he hadn’t even looked at in over an hour. Absently, he let his gaze flicker upward, just for a moment, scanning the thing for any cigarettes he may have snubbed out a little too early. 

He huffed lightly, grumbling and leaning back over his papers when he realized that he had smoked his last one already. For reference, that pack had been freshly bought from the corner store during his walk to work, and now it was… seventeen hours later. Seventeen hours. Had he really been here for  _ seventeen hours?  _

He turned in his chair, listening to it as it creaked with age, fingers drifting to the peeling armrests as he picked at a new spot, sure to completely lose the padding in about a month or so if he kept fidgeting at the rate he did. His gaze fell upon that godforsaken analog clock, its face staring back at him. As he read 12 AM, he swore to God that this inanimate object was tossing him a smug, dirty look. 

For a moment, he just considered giving up, calling it a night because technically, work had ended seven hours ago, and since he was simply doing paperwork and investigation instead of being on-call on-scene, he had every right to pack up his things and walk out of the office right this second. Ms. Takeda and her little desk cluster had been the last to leave other than a few maintenance men and janitors, so surely… surely it would be okay, right? 

His mind wandered to his apartment, shitty and small and dirty, and to the mattress that he should probably flip and the sheets he hadn’t washed in… well, in just far too long, and to the dishes from breakfast he had left soaking in the sink. He wondered if the burnt bits of egg and cheese from his omelet would be soft enough to scrape off after sitting in water sudsy from off-brand dish soap for-- you know-- seventeen hours.

Once more, he leaned back in his chair, though this time he practically threw all of his weight into it and it creaked back in protest, his exasperated groan turning into a small, shaky whimper, hand dragging slowly down his face. He was dead tired, but going home meant  _ going home,  _ and he didn’t like that option any more than he liked staying at work.

Slowly, he lowered his arms and placed them on his messy desk, narrowly avoiding squashing his honeybun, which he moved to the side, plastic crinkling and making the loudest noise in the silent office he sat in. Plaintively, like a depressed old dog who hadn’t gotten its walk, he lay his head down atop his arms, exhaling sharply through his nose, eyes half-lidded and tired but not sleepy. 

He missed being on the Lupin case if he was being completely honest. It had barely even been a month, but  _ wow,  _ it felt like fifty years had passed, and paperwork was not suitable for his busybody personality, it never had been. Besides, the Barnett couple didn’t have any rhythm or rhyme to their heists, but Lupin  _ always  _ did, no matter what it was. It was simply part of his theatrical personality. And because of these patterns and formulas the thief often followed, Zenigata actually knew how to go about capturing him, or, at least, being  _ close  _ to capturing him.

To the inspector, Lupin was an open book, one which Zenigata had read over and over and over again, with dog-ear folds creased lovingly in some of the most prominent pages, notes scribbled between lengthy, dramatic paragraphs. He knew the thief’s game and he knew how to play it, knew how to work around all of his little tricks, knew what methods to use to lure him out of hiding and how he would be able to get close enough to pin the thief and get him into handcuffs-- which was his favorite part about their Tom and Jerry-esque chases. 

Absently, Zenigata brought his pen to his mouth, chewing at the very end of it, teeth clacking slightly on hard plastic. 

See, whenever he actually managed to stop the thief long enough to cuff him, Lupin always wore this excited, even giddy expression across his face (which was usually tinted rosy pink with exertion, a sight Zenigata seldom forgot). His eyes would twinkle, and he’d be grinning that sly, impish grin ear to ear, almost as though he were congratulating the inspector on a job well done. It wouldn’t last, of course, for Lupin was slippery as an eel, and in five minutes at  _ most,  _ he would be squirming his way out of his handcuffs and tossing Zenigata a little wink that the inspector had to pretend to be mad about. 

Zenigata sighed, burying his face deeper into the crook of his arms, feeling his hair flatten against his forearms, nostrils immediately filling with the scent of ink and crumpled papers, wrinkled and torn ‘round the edges because his clammy hands were constantly resting against them. 

Almost longingly, he wondered what Lupin was up to now that he had nobody to chase him. True, he had been laying low as of late, and Zenigata hadn’t seen many stories or gotten any leads on him even before the Barnett case, but there was now a  _ huge  _ opportunity to paint the town red. To go crazy, to rob every bank, museum, jewelry store, and gallery. 

That on its own was another mystery that Zenigata was having to solve. The one that involved Lupin and where the hell he was and why the hell he hadn’t heard anything about the thief. It wasn’t like he had gone  _ missing  _ or anything-- in fact, Zenigata himself had had a few run-ins with the monkey of a man just last week while buying groceries on a chilly, wet, Thursday afternoon. He spotted Lupin, dressed to the nines in a fat parka and yellow rainboots at the self-checkout register paying for cinnamon raisin bread (he didn’t even know Lupin liked the stuff). He promptly followed his warmly dressed nemesis outside, stopping him in the parking lot and grabbing hold of his sleeve.

Lupin, however, got away as he always did, smiling and giggling and winking his little heart out, truly believing he had the upper hand and leaving Zenigata to drive home and contemplate why he had just let Lupin escape for the billionth time in a row. 

Zenigata picked his head up, scooting closer to his desk, more and more papers being ruined beneath his weight as he did so. He looked down at his tiny ocean of scraps and clippings from headlines and messy, unfocused polaroids and mugshots and scribbles and doodles and-- oh, man, he was tired. 

He didn’t let himself think about Lupin anymore, and instead, picked up his pen, hunched back over, and stuffed the rest of the honeybun into his mouth (which he regretted immediately, as the dough once more stuck to his teeth and roof of his mouth, and took quite a long time to chew) as he readied himself for another long, everlasting hour of pouring over the same papers and trying to find anything he might’ve missed. 

As expected, that very last hour was slower and heavier than molasses, dragging at his bones and eyelids and making his fingers feel so, so, so heavy. By the time he  _ finally _ stood up from his creaky desk chair, back cracking and a yawn erupting from his sleepy mouth, the air felt thick and he contemplated spending the night at the office. However, his mind darted back to his dishes, and then to events that occurred two years prior that he didn’t really want to think too hard about (to put it simply, he had come home several times to a family of cockroaches hanging out in his kitchen, and it turned out that there was an entire horde of them making billions of babies in his bedroom wall. Almost all of his paychecks went into pest control), and realized with a pang in his heart that his night was not yet over. He turned on his heel, glancing disdainfully at his most hated foe, that damned analog clock, and read one AM. If he left now, he might be able to finish everything he needed to do by three, and then maybe get four hours of sleep, a significantly larger amount than he had gotten all this week. 

With a slow, ambling shuffle, he began the long walk back to his apartment eyes half-lidded, entire body begging for a smoke. 

Or just a long night of rest.

You know what, maybe he  _ wouldn’t _ end up washing his dishes like he had wanted to. 

Maybe he’d just pass out on the floor. 

The rug next to his cheap little coffee table sounded  _ extremely  _ comfortable right about now. 

He left all of his materials spread out across his desk, knowing that tomorrow he’d come in, bright and early, and look over the same exact papers, searching for patterns that he couldn’t quite identify while Agent Brandy and the others went out and did active searches and stakeouts. He wondered if he was really even needed on the case. Perhaps, all of his bosses were simply tired of him constantly making some sort of mess when it came to Lupin and set him to work on something useless so that he’d shut up for once. 

Whatever the case, he decided that could think more about it tomorrow. Right now, his brain was too fried, too tired, and he knew that no matter what he did, he wouldn’t be able to put any more work into this terrible case that he absolutely hated. 

As he walked, he shimmied into his trenchcoat, placing his hat halfheartedly atop his head, hoping to hide his ruffled, messy hair that he would run his hands through every two minutes, stress building up and making his fingers twitch and head begin to pulse. Right now, if he could just get back to the apartment and sleep, that would be enough. He could rinse off in the morning, and he was sure that he had washed his regular work clothes earlier in the week-- he just needed to go to  _ bed,  _ dammit. 

The air was crisp and the wind was harsh when he exited the building, immediately beginning to bite at his nose and make his cheeks sting ever so slightly. Winters in Japan were gorgeous, yes, but  _ damn _ were they cold.

On nights like these, he ached to be somewhere warm and balmy and right next to the equator, perhaps on a sun-soaked beach in Italy, which he had grown to quite enjoy after hauling ass to capture Lupin in the area so many times. He wasn’t an ocean lover by any means, but right now, that hot, salty air sounded quite appealing. 

He sniffed, nose already beginning to grow a little runny in the cold, stiff hands burying themselves deep in the pockets of his coat. Over the years, the fabric had thinned out quite a bit, leaving him with little protection from the harsh wind that lashed out across his body, stinging his eyes and making his teeth clack together hard enough to make his jaw hurt. He should probably consider taking his car into work tomorrow, for as much as he liked the morning walk in the chill after a night of anxious sweating, he hated the lonely walk home in the dark at least fifty times more. There was something sad about it, something that made his chest ache and gut churn, something that made his mind wander to places it shouldn’t. People it shouldn’t. 

He passed the glowing neon lights of a convenience store, its sign boasting “OPEN 24-HOURS!” in flashing, green lights, the kind that shifted to red and then blue every few seconds. Several of the letters had burnt out, leaving it to state nothing but a sad little “O EN 2 -HO RS!” 

He glanced inside of the glass walls, spotting a young girl, probably no older than nineteen, sitting bored and tired at the countertop, short hair colored bright white, fingernails bitten down to stubs which she drummed with disinterest atop the countertop. 

He shivered, remembering when  _ he  _ had worked the nightshift in his younger years. It was at a fast-food place, ratty and a little torn down, but their food was good, even better if you were stoned and it was three in the morning. He’d work the counters from 12 AM ‘til 8 AM, a nice solid eight-hour shift, alongside one of his closest childhood friends that he had long since forgotten about. 

Now that he thought about it, he was fairly certain he had an enormous crush on the guy but didn’t know enough about himself to understand what it was that he was feeling. 

As a matter of fact, he didn’t understand what he was feeling until he joined the force. By then, he was happily married of course, but he often thought about what would’ve happened if he realized that he was allowed to like both men and women when he was younger. 

He’d probably be kicked out of his home, first of all.

...But maybe he wouldn’t hate himself so much for it now if he had just accepted it when he was younger. 

He let out a huff of air, one that he could see very clearly in front of his weary eyes, and then let out two more just for good measure, watching the subtle white cloud erupt from his parted lips, trying to snuggle closer to his coat and avoid the chill of the wind. 

“Hey, good-lookin’, where are you headed all alone on a night like this?” 

Zenigata stopped in his tracks, brow furrowing at the cat-call. He looked to his left-- nothing. Nobody. He looked to his right-- nothing. Nobody.

Behind him, in front of him, it was all empty, nothing but the tall streetlamp just a few paces behind, humming as its light poured onto the cold concrete below.

“Yeah, you! Tall dark and handsome-- why don’t you turn around so I can see your pretty face?” The voice purred once more, and suddenly, Zenigata wished that he had just stayed in his damn office. He recognized that tone all too well.

Slowly, he shuffled around, turning to face a dark figure looming at the very edge of an alley he had passed mere seconds ago, exhaustion painted all across his face. 

“What do you want, Lupin?” He grumbled, trying to hide beneath his hat, praying that the thief would just leave him to walk home in  _ peace.  _

“I want  _ you,  _ cutie,” Lupin purred, voice dripping with sultry charm as he sauntered closer, letting himself get bathed in the dim, yellow light from the streetlamp up above. His lids were lowered halfway, lashes fluttering, mouth curled into that familiar Cheshire smile that Zenigata didn’t know whether he wanted to punch or kiss. 

_ “What do you want, Lupin?”  _ Zenigata repeated himself, voice stern and solid and more authoritative than it had probably ever been. He was tired, both mentally and physically, and simply didn’t have the energy to deal with somebody as rambunctious and, frankly, annoying as Lupin the goddamned Third. In his pockets, he bunched his hands into fists, hoping that they would warm up a little bit. 

“Well, gee, Pops, you don’t have to be so snippy,” Lupin whined. 

“Just tell me what you want or go away, please,” Zenigata replied instantly. He was in no mood for games. Lupin sighed, rolling his eyes in childish exasperation, crossing his arms with a slight huff and striding just a little closer to the inspector. 

“Well, if you _really_ want to know, I was just going to warn you that I’m thinking of stealing something soon,” he winked, and Zenigata grit his teeth, squeezing his hands even harder in his pockets, though this time, it wasn’t to fight off the cold. “since I’ve been fairly absent for-- wow, would it have been a month, now? I think it would’ve been a month!-- since I’ve been fairly absent for a month, I thought I should make a little comeback, and I want _you--”_ he leaned closer for emphasis, getting right up in Zenigata’s personal bubble. The inspector leaned backward, glaring daggers into him. “--to be the first to know, _mon_ _amour,”_

That last part, spoken in smooth French that rolled silkily off of the thief’s tongue, caught Zenigata somewhat off guard. 

_ Somewhat.  _

Lupin had always been one to tease, especially after he had found out (from an unreliable source) that the inspector maybe, possibly had some sort of feelings in his general direction (which, of course, was not true, and Zenigata was willing to explain to anybody that it was all a misunderstanding ‘til the day he died), and tended to use this (false) information to his advantage. 

“Well, thanks for the tip,  _ mon cher,”  _ Zenigata spat what little French he knew right back at Lupin, gritting his teeth, eyes narrowing slightly. “but I’m afraid I won’t be there to lock you up, though I’m sure you’ll miss me,” 

He relaxed slightly, leaning back on his heels and crossing his arms, face softening ever so slightly as he spoke, turning from less of a sneer to more of a simple frown. “I’ve been assigned to another case for now, and won’t have time to deal with you. I’m up to my eyebrows in useless paperwork,” 

“You’re kidding, right? You just want to catch me off guard, don’t you!” Lupin laughed, pointing an accusatory finger Zenigata’s way as though he had just caught the inspector red-handed. “Can’t fool me that easily, you know,”

Zenigata rolled his eyes, pushing the thief’s finger away. “I guess you’ll just have to see for yourself when I’m not there to humor you,” 

_ “Humor  _ me?!” 

“Humor you. Can I go, now?” 

Lupin frowned, gaze flicking across the inspector’s face, searching for something, anything at all, but Zenigata was not offering it. He was too beat, and it was already far too late, and he still had several blocks before he would arrive home. 

“No-o...” Lupin said slowly. “No. You can’t. I want a cigarette.” He nodded, almost to himself, tone much more firm. “Mind if I bum one offa you?” He asked, fishing around in his pocket ‘til he pulled out an old Zippo lighter, one that had a tasteful carving of Venus, goddess of love, etched into the side, draped in a silky cloth. There was an inscription, too, and the inspector had to squint to read it. It said

_ ♡ sweetheart ♡ _

in English, written with delicate, loopy cursive, and it was so very Lupin that Zenigata simply  _ had  _ to roll his eyes. 

“Sorry, Lupin,” he said, watching as the thief’s deft fingers flicked the lighter open and closed. Could he ever sit still? “I smoked my last one in the office,” 

“How stingy,” Lupin sighed, using his free hand to dive back into his pocket, this one located inside of the seams of his thick winter jacket, black and a little too big for him as opposed to his regular red. He dug around for a few moments, jangling loose change and pocket lint before pulling out a pack of Gitanes. Zenigata couldn’t help but smile at the fact that he would still want to steal a cigarette from him despite having almost a full carton of his own.

With his teeth, the thief slowly pulled two of the bad habits out of the box, before slipping it back inside of his jacket and using his now shivering fingers to pull the one to the left from between his lips, bringing it close to Zenigata’s mouth. 

The inspector took it, letting Lupin place it between his lips, fingertips brushing against skin, and sending shockwaves through the inspector’s body, though he would deny that fact adamantly. Lupin began to flick at his finely decorated lighter, shuffling closer to protect the delicate, quivering little burst of flame from the wrath of the December chill. 

The lighter kept fizzling out, and he had to keep flicking it--  _ flk, flk, flk, flk--  _ before he finally just stepped even closer, tips of his shoes touching the tips of Zenigata’s, cold hands brushing lightly against the inspector’s cheek in order to keep steady. 

At long last, he managed to light Zenigata’s cigarette, mouth curling up into a satisfied little smile as he drew back and lit his own, hand cupped over the fire, little bursts of gold and yellow spilling between the cracks of his thin fingers.

In silence, the pair inhaled deeply, Lupin probably savoring the taste of his favorite brand, and Zenigata merely enjoying the feeling of hot smoke filling his icy lungs. He wasn’t built for the cold, that was for damn sure.

Looking at the man in front of him as he shivered away, drowning in his enormous jacket, lips blue and knuckles pale, he figured that Lupin wasn’t built for the cold, either. 

The moment was nice, and neither of them said anything, enjoying their cigarettes and standing in the empty, chilly darkness, distant sounds from cars and karaoke machines and bars floating through the rigid air and filtering through their bright red ears.

Zenigata looked over Lupin’s face, no longer shaped in an animated, overexaggerated expression. 

The moment was nice.

The moment was  _ too  _ nice.

He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“Wh-- hey, hey!” Lupin called, doing an awkward little half-jog to catch up to Zenigata, frowning and pouting his lower lip when he reached the inspector’s side, hands deep in his pockets as he walked, leaning forward just a little to try and get a peek at Zenigata’s face. “What’s the rush?” 

“I’ve got places to be, Lupin. I’m busy,” the inspector replied, taking another drag from his cigarette, smoke billowing from between his cracked lips.

“You’re no fun, did you know that?” 

“I have work to do,” 

“Just stay a while, I’m bored and I came all this way to  _ see you,  _ doesn’t that mean anything, Zenigata dear?”

This made the inspector stop dead in his tracks, and Lupin grinned triumphantly. 

All this way to see him, huh? What a little prick. Fat load of bullshit that was. 

Of course, though, Zenigata was weak, and the phrase sent a little jolt through his body, one that made his expression slip into something dangerous but only for a split second or two. 

“Goodnight, Lupin,” he said firmly, turning away. As he walked, he didn’t hear footsteps behind him, and he knew that Lupin had stopped following. 


	2. haunted house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lupin can't quite figure out Zenigata's cold tone, and the rest of his gang frankly couldn't care less

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hope ur doin well :-] dont forget to eat today!!!  
> sorry it takes me so long to write omg,,,, for some reason ive been real tired and can't concentrate 💔💔💔 thank u all so much for bein so patient and kind to me, it rly means a lot,,, like seriously i adore u all so much

Lupin bit at his lip, brow furrowing, hands stuffed into the pockets of the enormous jacket he had borrowed from Jigen, the pungent smell of his Marlboros still heavy on the fabric. His new pair of shoes, ones that looked exactly like his old ones except less scuffed and more expensive, clacked on the floor of the hotel lobby, loud and invasive and distracting an old woman at the counter as she waited for the man behind it to sign her in. 

The thief’s face was scrunched up as he mashed down the elevator button, frustrated and contorted into a childish pout, one which he wore as he entered the tiny, metal box, as he pressed the button to his floor, as he waited for the cable to oh so slowly bring him up, and as he exited the elevator to walk to his hotel room. 

Truth be told, it wasn’t exactly a sour expression, or at least not meant to be one. He was simply overthinking, going over all of the possibilities as to  _ why  _ Zenigata had been so quick to dismiss him. Surely, he didn’t think that Lupin was  _ lying  _ about the heist he had stuck in his back pocket, right? He couldn’t possibly be that stupid. 

Lupin went over the events that had happened mere moments earlier, playing them back like reels of old film, looking for hints or tips that perhaps Zenigata had secretly hooked him to a mic or a tracking device. Given their proximity when Lupin had (oh so generously) helped him with his cigarette, there were millions of chances. He’d have to do a thorough body check-over. 

Or maybe he’d have Fujiko do it. 

The thought made his mouth curl into a sly grin, but only for a split second before it fell right back into a frown. His brain was being pinballed around looking for explanations as to why Pops was acting so  _ strangely.  _

It had been a month, as Lupin had boasted to Zenigata earlier, since the thief’s last heist. And, of course, with him being the way he was, he would pop in to “check” on the dear inspector every so often, just testing him, making sure he was still on his toes, so on and so forth. And, of course, with Zenigata being the way  _ he  _ was, he would spring right into action, bellowing Lupin’s name and scrambling after him, arms outstretched as though if his fingertips were to even brush up against his target, that would count for something. 

Lupin stared at the ugly hotel carpet, a mixture of bland green vines and dull red flowers against a burnt orange backing, a few dark stains that could or could not have been mold dotting the corners. His shoes shuffled against it, rousing the fabric. 

This time, when he had gone to bother Zenigata, it had been so  _ different.  _ There was no excitement, no loud, over-the-top exclamations of triumph, of “I finally got you, Lupin!” even though he was nowhere even  _ close  _ to capturing the slippery thief. Instead, he had just been faced with… well, the cold shoulder, basically. Zenigata hadn’t been rambunctious or loud or  _ anything  _ like his normal self at all. He was off. Something was off. 

Lupin slipped the keycard into the slot that sat just above the door handle, waiting for the light to flash green and for the tell-tale click of a lock to sound, though perhaps he wasn’t paying as much attention to it as he thought he was, for the click had occurred a little over thirty seconds ago before he realized what exactly was going on. When he finally regained his brain from…  _ wherever  _ it had gone, he pushed down on the handle and bumped the door open with his hip, striding inside, squinting  _ hard  _ as all of the lights were already off. The others had already fallen asleep, hadn’t they? 

He let the door shut and lock behind him, tossing his keycard atop the little table that stood quaint and light brown next to the umbrella stand, the one where Jigen had put a pink lawn flamingo instead of an actual umbrella. The gunman had stolen it from some poor, unsuspecting suburban home, no motive behind his sudden robbery besides “I don’t know, I just thought he belonged,” with “he,” of course, being the cross-eyed plastic bird. Ever since, the ugly little thing had been sitting in the backseat of the Fiat, being brought into any hotel or inn that the gang stopped at. Truly a member of the team. 

Lupin kicked off his shoes as he walked deeper into the hotel, squinting into the dark as his eyes adjusted, looking directly at the floor to make sure that he didn’t step on--

_ “Hmph…!” _

\--Goemon. Oops. 

Slowly, the thief lifted his foot from the samurai’s side, biting his lip, praying that he hadn’t accidentally woken the poor guy up. Thankfully, though, he simply murmured something in his sleep, nuzzled into his pillow, and rolled over, which left Lupin in the clear and able to carefully step over his body to make it to the singular bed that sat backed up against the wall, wooden bedframe chipped in the corners.

Fujiko and Jigen were already fast asleep, of course, seeing as it was near 2 AM, and they had been out on a long stakeout in the cold all day. For six or seven hours, they sat dressed to the nines in jackets and scarves and gloves and winter booties, wrapped up in thick blankets and huddling beneath fat, fluffy hats as they spied through the window of some haughty daddy’s boy’s mansion, watching the owner open, close, and re-open his safe containing all sorts of shimmering goodies sure to fetch a pretty penny with some shady jewelers. 

They managed to memorize the code and write it down, and overall it had been a wonderfully successful stakeout, but  _ boy  _ were they freezing up. Lupin was positive that they were going to come down with a pair of nasty colds when they came back to the hotel, blue-lipped, and red-nosed, but their hot heads kept them plenty warm as they bellyached to Lupin about the fact that now, after having to work together all day, they had to share a bed, too.

Eventually, they gave up and simply crashed, and now Jigen was laying on his back with his arms outstretched as Fujiko curled up next to him, her leg draped over both of his, snoring quietly into the side of a pillow. 

Slowly, he shrugged out of his jacket, not really caring about wrinkles as it slipped from his arms and fell in a crinkled pile to the floor, fingers slowly creeping up to his throat to do the same with his yellow tie. He slipped it off effortlessly, ignoring it as it fluttered down to join the jacket, and crawled into the bed, feeling tired and suddenly  _ very  _ dejected at what had happened earlier. 

Seriously, what was Zenigata’s problem tonight? He normally wasn’t so cold. Or, at least, not  _ genuinely  _ so. He was always trying to put up some sort of no-bullshit persona around Lupin to intimidate him or something, but the thief saw through his facade, and it had become somewhat of a game between them to try and break this act the inspector was putting up. Tonight, though… 

Lupin frowned, curling up against Jigen’s side (this mattress was twin-sized, so there wasn’t exactly room to spare. Plus, it was damn  _ cold  _ in that room), tugging the blanket bunched up at the gunman’s feet and covering all three people. He wasn’t fazed when he felt Jigen shift in his sleep, draping his arm across Lupin’s face, who carefully wriggled out from beneath it and lifted his head, laying back down once the gunman’s arm was beneath him and he could use it as a sort of pillow. There was a moment where he lay still, without breathing, making absolutely sure that he hadn’t woken the other two beside him by accident. However, when neither of them shifted or murmured or fluttered their sleepy eyes open, he let himself relax, bones suddenly feeling heavier than they had mere moments before. 

He forced his eyes shut, trying to purge his hazy mind of all thoughts that were floating around, murmuring scenarios and possibilities to him that he knew couldn’t possibly be true. He was almost nervous, to tell the truth-- maybe Zenigata was trying a new approach to capture him. One that put up this aloof, careless act so that Lupin’s guard would drop, so that he would feel safe enough to complete his heist without making too many precautious, thus leaving him vulnerable and all of his plans sloppy. Then, at the last minute, the inspector would swoop in with his handcuffs clanking and his eyes glinting and catch Lupin and the others completely by surprise and toss them into jail…

...but since when was he so crafty?

Pops had always been a clever man. He was a bumbling moron, no doubt about that, but he was  _ sharp.  _ There was a reason that he had been the only police officer to successfully arrest Lupin several times (even if the thief ended up escaping), after all. But despite his intelligence, he wasn’t one for tricks. There had been one or two times, especially near the beginning of their endless chase when he had done the gang fairly dirty, had played off of Lupin, and caught him with something hidden up his big brown sleeves, but it was quite out of character for him, and he quickly stopped when he realized that some of his tricks could potentially cause harm to the thief and his gang. 

So what changed? 

Surely he couldn’t  _ actually  _ be on a different case, right? There was absolutely no way he was telling the truth. Because he had been assigned different cases temporarily before-- this certainly wasn’t the first time-- and yet Lupin was still his number one priority. He often got in deep trouble with the officials, as a matter of fact, because he simply couldn’t keep away. It was sort of endearing, to tell the truth-- but  _ only  _ sort of. He had proved to be quite bothersome in the past. 

Lupin furrowed his brow, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He needed to get some sleep, for he knew he was tired and he knew that he would regret it tomorrow if he didn’t, but his brain just  _ wasn’t letting him.  _ It was thrumming with possible answers to his question, filled with thoughts and images of the inspector’s cold eyes as he told Lupin to leave, with the sight of his figure growing more and more distant when he turned away from the thief and walked back to his apartment. 

Beside him, Jigen snuffed in his sleep, making a small humming noise for one or two seconds before falling silent once more. Without warning, he jerked, yanking his arm out from beneath Lupin’s head and causing the thief to roll abruptly sideways, all the way to the edge (once again, keep in mind: twin sized) and before he could stop himself, he found himself letting out a small yelp as the hotel carpet grew quite close in about half a second. 

He groaned, slowly sitting up and massaging his left cheek where he had hit the floor, irritation painted all across his face as he sat up on his knees, planting his hands on the side of the bed to anchor himself. Peeking out over the top of the mattress, his face contorted with a dramatically sour expression to hopefully convey just how much of an asshole Jigen had been to move so sporadically, however, was faced with no audience. The gunman was still fast asleep, back facing Lupin, and Fujiko was snoring just a little bit louder than earlier. 

Quietly, the thief sighed, crawling reluctantly back onto the bed, pressing his back to Jigen’s and praying that he wouldn’t try to crush him or something during the night. He closed his eyes, relying on his hands to paw around the slumbering bodies next to him for a moment to relocate the blanket, which he yanked quite passive-aggressively over himself and snuggled into his pillow.

Tomorrow was a new day, and he wasn’t even going to think about his interaction with the inspector. He had other things to think about-- such as, obviously, the heist that he had to complete soon. 

Tomorrow came. Zenigata was still glued to Lupin’s mind, stuck uncomfortable and awkward and annoying like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth. 

The thief woke up groggy and cold, eyes thick with sleep and tongue tasting sour and dry. Awkwardly, he sat up on his elbows, pushing himself up (much to the creaky mattress’ disdain) and sat hunched over his knees, which he drew close to his chest, blanket pooling around him like an ocean of cotton. 

“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Fujiko’s voice was the first he heard, and the feeling of dainty, long fingers scrubbing at his scalp lolled his head from side to side. “you’re the last awake.” 

“Why did we let him sleep in again? We’re doin’ all the work over here,” Jigen’s gruff rumble was next, voice still scratchy and rough from just recently waking up. The pungent scent of black coffee wrenched Lupin’s eyes wide open. 

“Hi, Jigen,” he said, brain still a little foggy as he kicked his legs over the side of the bed, forgetting all about how he had slept in his clothes, grimacing slightly at the fact that he definitely still smelled like dirt and sweat from yesterday’s mission with Goemon (while Fujiko and Jigen did their stakeout, Lupin and the samurai went out to sneak a few files from the rich snot’s father, who lived in a significantly smaller but exquisite house all the same. Long story short, there had been a short scuffle, and both the Lupin and Goemon found themselves laying low--literally-- for quite a while).

“We are discussing methods of entry,” Goemon explained, flat-toned and sounding perfectly level-headed. Lupin also took notice that he was the only one who had already gotten rid of his bedhead, and was completely prim and polished for the day.

“There’s a joke there, but I’m not going to make it,” Lupin smiled, crossing the room lazily to the cheap coffee maker sitting atop the countertop near the hotel’s window, which was tall and wide, covering a large portion of the wall. As he advanced towards the miniature-mini-kitchen, he made a point to pass along the noogie Fujuko had given him, hand landing atop Goemon’s head and ruffling his perfect hair, fingers getting tangled in black locks as the samurai attempted in vain to swat Lupin away. “what do we have so far?” 

“Well, thanks to yesterday, we know how to get into the vault, so that part is out of the way,” Jigen started, taking a sip of gross hotel coffee from his styrofoam cup, still wearing a pair of Fujiko’s sleep shorts and an ugly green sweater he had stolen from the bargain bin of a shopping center over in Congo two years ago. “and as for access to the mansion? The security there is surprisingly lax for somebody so stuck up. There are a few windows that look completely damn ignored near the top floor, I’m pretty sure he actually forgot they existed,” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Fujiko snorted, sipping on a mimosa from a metal cart that must’ve been rolled in from room service earlier. “that place is  _ huge,” _

“So is that where we’ll swing in?” Lupin asked, arching an inquisitive brow, trying to ignore the itch in his brain that he desperately wanted to scratch. 

“Most likely, but I believe we still have a few factors left untouched,” Goemon said as he tried to pat down his hair that had been freshly ruined. 

“Like…?” 

“For one, we are still unsure about surveillance devices such as cameras and microphones. Not to mention Zenigata. He may be clumsy, but he understands our methods most of the time--” 

“Why do you say that?” Lupin snapped to life, feeling very awake, cutting Goemon clean off. “Did you hear something? Is he planning something? I feel like there’s just… he’s  _ off,  _ I just know it. It seems like he knows a little too much, or maybe he’s using some different sort of bullshit to trick me behind prison bars-- I’m glad you guys think so, too.”

A pause. 

Silence. 

Lupin waited for a moment, looking around at his friends, who all wore confused expressions and made no move to speak. 

“...You… you  _ do  _ think so, too, don’t you?” 

Once again, nothing except a few uncomfortable coughs and sidelong glances. Lupin frowned, face falling. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, turning back to his coffee, pouring the hot, dark liquid into his little styrofoam cup, which didn’t really protect his fingers from the searing heat, and he hissed gently, flapping his hand back and forth and blowing on his fingertips. 

“...Something happen, Lupin?” Jigen asked, the first to break that uncomfortably thick silence. “You usually aren’t so worried about him,” 

“I’m not worried,” Lupin snorted, turning around quickly to face the gunman. He still wasn’t going to gamble with picking up his hot coffee, so he let it sit and cool down by the frosty window. “he was just acting strange. So I figured that maybe he has some sort of scheme, something that’ll bag us for good,” 

“Since when has he ever had one of those?” Fujiko asked, offering her mimosa to Goemon, who gently took the stem of the champagne glass in his fingers and took a small sip. Immediately, he made a face, passing it back to Fujiko who shrugged and drained the rest of it in one go. Lupin watched as, carefully, she placed the shivering, expensive glass back onto the cart and reached for one of the bagels she had ordered, halving it, and tossing one side to Jigen. “It isn’t like he’s suddenly changed his personality out of the blue. We know Pops and we know that he’s always got the same things planned,” 

“Yeah, but this was different,” 

“Different how?” Jigen asked, taking a bite out of his half of bagel. Cinnamon raisin. 

“I think he’s trying to get me to feel sorry for him. He made up this whole thing about how he had to drop my case for a bit to work on something else, and then he spoke all  _ soft  _ and-- and he might’ve put makeup on because the bags under his eyes seemed heavier than usual,” Lupin explained, frantically waving his hands about and waggling his fingers for emphasis. “he’s done it before, right? Trying to use the pity card?” 

“I think he’s just tired, Lupin,” Fujiko shrugged, mouth full. “he wasn’t lying about the new case, you know. It’s on the Barnett couple? British pair that got real into arson a few months back?”

Lupin turned to her, frowning and leaning against the counter, folding his arms slowly over his chest, waiting for her to continue. 

“We all thought you knew. He’s been spreading himself fairly thin over at Interpol for quite a bit,” 

Lupin opened his mouth to say something, but Jigen beat him to the punch. “Does that really matter, though?” He asked. “We’re in the clear for the most part. Now that Pops isn’t on our ass, we don’t have to worry about anybody tryin’ to trip us up, and we’ll be able to clean out that safe with no problem at all,”

Fujiko snorted, smile more affectionate than berating. “You say that like Zenigata is a threat,” she hummed, and Jigen shrugged. 

“That isn’t the point,” Lupin huffed, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. “he’s being weird! The man was completely aloof, I mean--”

“Lupin,” Goemon said suddenly, effectively interrupting the thief and stopping him in his tracks. “I think for now we should leave Zenigata to his own affairs,”

“Goemon’s right,” Fujiko nodded her head towards the samurai, tucking a strand of bright ginger hair behind her ear, only to have it curl back against her cheek. “it isn’t really any of our business, and besides,” she paused a moment, biting at her bottom lip. “I don’t know, maybe it’s weird to say but I feel sort of bad for the guy. He’s cooped up in a tiny office all day hunched over a desk and scribbling away at papers he isn’t entirely sure are even accurate. Plus, his entire crew got taken over by some other detective, a real hardass I hear, and are on the scene without him-- it’s gotta hurt his pride a bit,” 

Jigen snorted. “Damn, Fujiko, since when have you ever been sympathetic towards Pops?” 

“I’m not. Sympathy and pity aren’t the same,” 

“Cold,” he laughed, and Fujiko tossed him a dimpled smile in response as Lupin rolled his eyes, aggravated that his friends didn’t fully understand the situation, and began to try and explain Zenigata’s sudden mood shift to them once more. However, the subject abruptly shifted, everybody seeming to forget about the previous topic immediately, tones growing more playful, expressions less concerned.

Jigen had run out of cigarettes, and nothing more about Pops could be said, for the gunman insisted that he walk to the closest drugstore immediately and buy a new pack so that he could concentrate better on the heist. Nobody opposed to this idea, for the group was fairly antsy from their inactivity, and after they had arrived in Miyoshi (which, mind you, was only a day trip away from their apartment in Tokyo) they had immediately started their plan, fingers itching to get any sort of work done. None of them was the type to sit still-- save, perhaps, Jigen, who didn’t mind skipping out on a heist or two in favor of his Marlboros and off-brand whiskey.

Lupin still had several theories as to why he wasn’t being targeted by the inspector, one of them, of  _ course,  _ being the infamous unrequited love bit that someone had pointed out a few months back. Something about Zenigata being head over heels for the very man he dedicated his life to, which, to Lupin, made perfect sense, and ever since that day he had tried to squeeze something,  _ anything  _ out of Pops that would serve as some sort of proof. He didn’t mind, per se, quite used to being the object of many people’s affections, but God was it funny to think about.

The problem was that, if he was doing something else, his attention was no longer directed at the thief, which meant he wouldn’t be as fun to tease (take, for example, last night). And for some reason, the idea that he wasn’t even going to bat an eye at Lupin’s presence just sat so heavy, so wrong in the thief’s stomach, and he didn’t like  _ that  _ feeling one bit. 

He managed to swallow it down, of course, putting up the very same facade Pops had, acting calm and cool and collected as he roamed the streets of Miyoshi with Jigen, as Fujiko and Goemon had split off and gone somewhere else. They bought the cigarettes-- taking two cartons instead of the original one-- and split a soda from the vending machine just outside the store, sitting on the empty sidewalk as the gunman smoked, occasionally passing the cigarette to Lupin who gladly took a drag or two, cringing at the taste which was wildly different from his preferred Gitanes. 

For a while, they just walked, Jigen doing most of the talking between them, as Lupin’s mind was somewhere else. When the gunman would ask him something pertaining to the context of their one-sided conversation, Lupin would look at him, glassy-eyed and distant, and just smile and nod, maybe even laugh to really drive the point home that he wasn’t paying attention to a damn thing. If Jigen caught onto it (which he probably did), he didn’t say anything, and for that, Lupin was grateful. 

He wasn’t even sure  _ why  _ Zenigata’s new case was bothering him so much. It shouldn’t be. In fact, he should be glad to have him off of his back for once, because as Fujiko had said earlier, it wasn’t as though he was really a  _ threat,  _ but he sure knew how to get in the way. So, all in all, he was more of an obstacle, really. 

He  _ did  _ add a certain element of fun, though, if Lupin was being completely honest. The chase was… thrilling, to say the least. Always had been. In fact, Lupin was so fond of it, that it was probably the reason that he was a little bitter about Zenigata just abandoning his case and leaving him high and dry. Stealing jewels was easy, shaking off authorities was easy, but Zenigata? He always had this certain determination to him, this quality that made him so damn hard to lose, and God it was annoying but Lupin would be lying if he said it wasn’t at least a little endearing, too.

The day was long, and Lupin couldn’t think of anything other than the fact that Zenigata had been so distant, looked so tired, seemed so  _ off. _ It just didn’t sit right with him, none of it made any sense. It made the thief unbelievably uncomfortable when he thought too hard about it, but that seemed to be the only thing he  _ could  _ think about. 

The others noticed this, and ignored it, leaving him to stew in his own little pot of self-pity, though, of course, he wouldn’t ever call it that. 

He preferred to think about it as being precautious because he still didn’t fully believe that the inspector had dropped his case, even if it was just temporary. So, of course, because he was melodramatic and ticked off at Pops and the stupid act he was putting up, he would do what  _ any  _ logical person would do: break and enter. 

Zenigata’s apartment happened to be in Miyoshi, a rather scenic little city located in the Hiroshima Prefecture of Japan. He had moved around quite a bit, with his last place being in Kyoto, but he had lived  _ here _ before and Lupin most associated it with his presence-- though of course this time around he was more focused on the mansion and the vault of jewels he and his friends were going to swipe. 

It was small and quaint, as that was the nature of all of the underpaid inspector’s homes, the fate all of the hole-in-the-wall apartments of his would always share. But this one was at least a little more… familiar looking. Homey, so to speak. Lupin had been inside as a guest once or twice, heavily disguised of course, and the furniture was always old and second-hand and the entire atmosphere thrummed with life, whether that be Zenigata himself or the roach infestation the poor guy had about two years ago. Lupin had felt bad for him and pretended to be an exterminator for  _ weeks  _ to help him get rid of the bugs, so yeah, he knew his way around the inspector’s place fairly well. 

He figured that  _ this  _ visit would be no different from the others as he shifted gears in the Fiat, fingers drumming absently on the wheel as he changed lanes, afternoon light spilling across the dashboard and scattering over his fingertips. It was just like any other, except he wouldn’t be wearing anything to conceal his identity. He actually considered it while he lied to his friends about where he would be going, thinking about digging into his trunk and looking for his Marie costume, but figured that maybe just being Lupin would awaken something in Zenigata. Snap him to his senses, or at least direct his attention to more  _ pressing  _ matters at hand (“pressing matters,” of course, being Lupin himself).

He glanced into the rearview mirror, eyeing a semi that looked just a little too close for comfort before it peeled off to the right, leaving him with a string of smaller cars that had to compensate for the gap the semi had left. He sighed, worrying at his lower lip, imagining how this little drop-in would play out, and whether or not it would be entirely worth it. 

There was still an enormous possibility that it was a trap, that Zenigata  _ wanted  _ Lupin to believe he was slacking off of the thief’s case, but there was also a sliver of a chance that it wasn’t. And, if the latter was the case, then Lupin would have to slap some sense into this asshole and remind him that his job remained centered around capturing an infamous thief. 

From an outsider’s perspective, it would almost seem as though Lupin was… was  _ jealous,  _ or perhaps feeling a little neglected, like a dog who was left home all day or a cat that was fed dry food instead of wet. But that wasn’t the case-- it never would be. If anything, Zenigata needed Lupin around to stay sane, but never the other way around. 

Lupin gripped the steering wheel harder. ‘Til his knuckles turned white. ‘Til his palms grew clammy. 

It was just  _ wrong  _ without Zenigata there to hunt down Lupin and his friends, like the missing piece of a perfect puzzle. He belonged in the picture, the thief decided, needed to make a fool out of himself to make Lupin and his friends look  _ better.  _ That was it, right? That was all the poor inspector was useful for, wasn’t it? That was the reason that Lupin felt so sick over his cold tone the other night, the reason why the possibility that he wouldn’t be there to play the game of cat and mouse when Lupin (inevitably) swiped the jewels made the thief’s stomach churn uncomfortably, made him anxious beyond explanation. It had to be. 

His apartment wasn’t far off, in fact, Lupin could’ve walked to it if he wasn’t in somewhat of a hurry and the weather wasn’t shit. The forecasts as of late had predicted snow, snow, and more snow in the coming days, and he wasn’t about to risk freezing his ass off while he walked to go scold Pops about his absence. So far, Japan had been lucky, and the white sheets of winter hadn’t descended upon the city streets and settled in every nook and cranny between every building, but the season would have to leave its mark sooner or later. It was rather unfortunate, now that Lupin thought about it, that they weren’t working somewhere warmer, somewhere with lots of sun and beautiful women in short clothes-- he hated the cold.

Zenigata’s apartment building wasn’t completely run down and falling apart, but it was no five star joint, either. It was quaint and humble, with brick walls and clinging ivy, and almost all of the doors were in desperate need of new locks and handles. It was small and it was quaint, but it seemed to provide enough for its tenants, which, in the long run, Lupin supposed was the only thing that truly mattered. Of course, though, he personally was more on the luxurious side, often preferring his hideouts to look a lot cleaner and more modern, but he supposed this place held some sort of charm in its rusty hinges and dirty, old carpet. 

He parked the Fiat in a small space in the alleyway, making sure that it was completely out of sight from passersby, as there was still daylight left and it would be fairly easy to see his bright yellow car. As he shifted gears to park and took his key from the ignition, he realized that maybe he  _ should have,  _ in fact, walked, or at least taken a taxi. It would be less conspicuous than whatever the hell he was doing, but hey, the past was the past, and he was currently worried about matters of the present. Like how he was going to sneak into the inspector’s apartment without being caught. 

He leaned back in the chair, unbuckling his seatbelt and letting his left hand absently drift to the car door, finger poking at the handle which had grown chilly as it was right under the window. 

Lupin let out a small hum, reluctantly pushing on the door and propping it open with his foot as he climbed out, fingers lingering on whatever they brushed up against, his entire body seeming to reject the idea of going through with this nonsensical plan. That’s what it was, right? It was all nonsense-- none of this was logical at all, and Lupin most certainly didn’t care enough about whatever ratty plan Zenigata may or may not have in order to fail at a new way of capturing him. So, truth be told, he should probably just slide back into the Fiat and drive away. Pick something to eat up on the way back to the hotel, have dinner while planning another foolproof heist with his friends, maybe crack open a bottle of gas station wine if they finished up early. 

Yeah, Lupin decided, hands gripping the railing to the fire escape as his foot clanged against the old, rust-red metal steps. That sounded like a good plan--

\--fire escape? 

Lupin blinked, just a little flabbergasted as he looked frantically down at his shoes and found he was already a good six feet above the ground. Maybe his body didn’t reject the idea of breaking into Zenigata’s home so much, after all, seeing as it had, without his permission, already begun. 

He frowned, biting his lip and considering his options, pressing down harder into the railing. It would certainly be a lot easier to just go back down, to drive away, to pretend none of this ever happened and that this stupid idea never entered his head in the first place. But, all the same, he just had to figure out what Zenigata’s deal was, or it would eat at him. It would distract him, make him lose focus. His heart said he was worried. His head said he just wanted to make sure that Pops was out of the way for  _ sure.  _

So, following his head, he nodded to nobody in particular and made haste up the cold, metal steps of the fire escape. It creaked and groaned beneath his weight, threatening to give way, though he knew it would never happen even if paranoia told him otherwise. As he climbed higher and higher, his stomach began to do flips at the sight of the ground, so he stopped looking down and instead focused on which window belonged to Zenigata-- not as though he knew it by heart, of course, but yeah. He knew it by heart. 

How could you not, though? It was quite noticeable-- it had floral pattern curtains that, when they were open, revealed a little yellow kitchen that held several brown cabinets and an apron rack. A damn  _ apron  _ rack. Zenigata had three-- Lupin’s favorite, though, was the white one with pink lace that said  _ Kiss the Cook  _ in sweet, endearing cursive, and a big pocket on the abdomen that was probably used to hold whatever cooking tools the user didn’t have the hands for. 

All in all, the window to Zenigata’s apartment was clear in Lupin’s mind, but he chalked that up to the fact that it looked like it had been frozen in time from the 1800s. 

This old-lady-esque vision was only a few more steps away, and Lupin felt himself grow uncomfortably nervous the closer he got. His feet seemed to get heavier, and his head started to ache ever so slightly. Maybe it was just because of the cold. 

Or maybe it was the worry that he would slip into Zenigata’s apartment and find that he really  _ did  _ have a new case. 

Lupin, of course, ignored that option, because it didn’t make sense. Once again, he reminded himself that he didn’t care about Zenigata’s work or well-being. All that mattered was whether or not he would have to worry about some shittily planned trap being sprung on him while he tried to work his magic on the safe in the targeted mansion. 

He crept up to the window, frost kissing the edges of it, afternoon light sending scattered droplets of gold all throughout the tile of Zenigata’s kitchen floor. Lupin pressed a tentative palm to the cold glass, feeling all of the warmth seep from his palm as he leaned in closer, breath coming out in heavy white puffs of air, eyes sweeping across the base of the window. 

It wasn’t locked, just as he suspected-- it never was. Zenigata could be fairly careless when it came to such trivial things as locking his window, and for that, Lupin was grateful. For, because of this fact, he was able to gently find the edges of the windowpane and latch his fingers beneath it with the help of his short, bitten nails. Slowly, carefully, quietly, he slid it upward, cringing at the ever-present scrape of the window against its frame, hoping that the inspector was concentrating on something else or, perhaps, more helpfully, in another room. 

He stopped several times, glancing around and making sure that nobody was spying on him, preparing to rat him out, or (even worse) that Zenigata wouldn’t suddenly appear before him, grin wide as the Grand Canyon, handcuffs gleaming like stars as he prepared to throw Lupin’s ass into jail. 

Thankfully,  _ none  _ of this transpired, and Lupin was able to push the window open the rest of the way, letting a cold draft of air into the apartment. In response, those cute curtains fluttered about, making the gentlest flapping noise, one that would never be heard unless you were pressed right up against them. 

He poked his head in first, realizing that all of the lights were off and bracing his hands on Zenigata’s kitchen countertop, eyes darting to and fro, searching for any sign of movement. The only thing worth looking at was a few cobwebs forming above his cabinets and at the vent in his ceiling and the dust bunnies creeping around the corners but... that was about it.

Satisfied that there wasn’t anybody currently in the room, he slunk the rest of the way in, worming his leg through and sliding further across the counter, a surge of guilt rushing through his body as his dirty shoes touched the place that Zenigata most likely prepared his meals (even though the more he looked at it, the more he realized that it seemed… very unused. There was dust forming on the toaster and a dead bug in the sink-- on that had died a  _ while  _ ago judging by how crunchy its tiny bug corpse looked).

He touched base with the tile, taking note of the dirt wedged in the grit, the long-forgotten bits of dried noodle poking out alongside a dropped fork beneath the dishwasher, which had been left ajar. Upon further inspection, nothing was actually  _ in  _ this dishwasher, however, it didn’t seem like there even needed to be anything. There weren’t any dirty dishes lying about save for one or two in the sink, but even those seemed unused and forgotten. Clearly, Zenigata hadn’t tidied up in a while, but… but did he even  _ have  _ to? 

Pushing away an uncomfortably tight feeling beginning to form in his chest, Lupin began his search for the inspector, walking out of the kitchen and into a dimly lit hallway, picture frames hanging on the walls that were coated in a thin layer of dust. Some of them were cracked, some of them held photos of his wife and daughter, Toshiko, but there was clearly a space cut out of the picture where he should have been. Some of the frames were completely empty. It made Lupin sad. He tried not to think about it. 

He stepped quietly over the creaky, scuffed hardwood floors, disturbing even more dust bunnies as he did so, running his fingers gently along the wallpapered walls while he peered into Zenigata’s bedroom. It was dark, as the curtains were drawn, and once again, no lights had been turned on, leaving the dying natural light to illuminate little dust particles floating around near the partially broken window (there was a thin, hairline crack that let  _ just  _ enough air in for it to be drafty). 

The bed was completely made, but as Lupin walked closer to it, it was evident that it hadn’t been washed in quite a while, for there was dust hidden in the sheets and the pillows were completely flat and the blanket looked inhumanely undisturbed. He wondered how long it had been since the inspector had actually slept on his bed. Wondered when he had woken up, made it, and then left thinking that he would come back home and be able to make it again the  _ next  _ morning. Wondered why it had been left untouched for so long. 

All throughout his apartment, Lupin found  _ hints  _ of Zenigata living in the small space, found  _ traces  _ of his existence, found  _ possibilities  _ that he  _ maybe, perhaps  _ resided inside of this particular apartment building, but everything seemed so… stale. Nobody  _ really  _ lived here, Lupin thought. Not actually. This was just a place to sleep in, just a place to heat microwavable noodles in, a place to take showers in. It wasn’t a home any more than it was a hotel room. Never changing, never somewhere to permanently stay. Just… a room. 

It all looked so abandoned, so utterly and completely forgotten that Lupin wondered whether or not Pops even came back to it anymore. Perhaps the lights were off because he hadn’t paid the light bill due to completely leaving the place behind, perhaps--

wait. 

Wait, wait, wait. 

Scratch that. 

The lights were working just  _ fine, _ and Lupin spotted one glowing soft and yellow from the living room, the only place he hadn’t checked yet. Absently, his lips curled into a mischievous little smile, one that meant  _ bingo,  _ he had finally hit his mark, he was finally going to be able to talk some sort of sense into Zenigata and no longer had to walk about his sad, empty apartment preserved in time. 

Slowly, he tiptoed back through the hallway, careful to keep along the walls as to reduce the creaking of the floorboards, eyes shifting and muscles flinching at every single movement he caught. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had missed this earlier, but he could scold himself on his complete tunnel-vision later. First, he needed to scold Pops. 

The closer he grew, the more his heart pounded, the more excited he got. He would finally be able to bite back, to have that same cold, aloof attitude that had bothered him so much just last night, to make Zenigata feel that same gnawing feeling  _ he  _ had. He would be able to bust the inspector for a shitty plan to lie to him, would be able to chew him out completely, and then maybe offer him another cigarette as he had earlier-- the  _ look _ on Zenigata’s face when he did so last night had been far too good (a little flustered, a little taken aback. A little soft). 

He crept into the living room, taking note of the papers spilling out across the coffee table, of the mug half-full that looked completely and utterly neglected. His eyes swept across the scene, searching hungrily until finally, at last, he spotted the inspector. He grinned, thrills racing up and down his spine, and opened his mouth to say something, crossing over to the couch the working figure was on and standing directly in front of it, hands planted firmly atop his hips. 

“Well, well,” he purred, smirking. “going over my files, Pops?” He asked, his head held triumphant and high. 

There was no response. 

A pang of annoyance made his grin waver just a little bit, but it left quickly after it arrived.

“Don’t be like that!” He laughed, peeking down at the man before him. His head was down, hat covering his face as he sat back against the couch, papers loose in his hands. “That cool act you put up really isn’t your thing you know, Pops.” Lupin snickered.

Once again, nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

“Pops, hey,” Lupin said, beginning to feel a little neglected. “hey!  _ Hey!  _ Come on, earth to Po...p...s…” 

His voice trailed off, growing soft, all edge dropping immediately and shattering to the floor when the inspector took a deep breath and the papers slipped from his hands. “Zenigata?” Lupin asked, walking forward hesitantly, tilting his head to the side. Gingerly, he reached out, fingers brushing against the rim of Zenigata’s hat before he took it between his thumb and index finger, pulling it off gently and slowly.

The guy was fast asleep. He almost looked dead, as a matter of fact, and if he hadn’t just breathed a second ago, Lupin would’ve suspected as much. 

In the light of the lamp near the couch, his skin looked grey, sunken, devoid of all life. His eyes held bags and dark circles, skin dry, hair a greasy mess. Stubble grew on his normally clean chin, and he seemed as though he hadn’t eaten a real, proper meal in quite a good while. 

Lupin’s eyes flicked down to the papers he had just been holding and, carefully, he reached down to scoop them up. 

“British Couple Eviscerates Fukui CEO,” he read the headline of an article quietly. He scanned the blocks of text, picking up on things like  _ Barnett  _ and  _ Phillip  _ and  _ Gertrude.  _

He put the paper onto the coffee table, and then looked at the many others that lay strewn haphazardly about. Every single one of them referred to the British thieves-- where they had last been spotted, where they might strike next, possible locations of their hideout-- all with chicken-scratch scribbles of notes that Zenigata must have jotted down as he worked. 

Lupin looked back up at the sleeping inspector, sudden pain that he couldn’t quite describe constricting his ribs and making his stomach churn and heart  _ ache.  _ Zenigata was wearing himself to the bone, concentrating so terribly hard at his work that his home had been completely forgotten, that he was nothing more than a ghost haunting a space someone named Koichi used to occupy. 

“You’re so silly,” he said quietly, though he knew he would never be heard as he walked a little closer, making sure that his footsteps were quiet, making sure that his movements were slow. “Fujiko was right. You really  _ do  _ spread yourself thin, huh?”

Carefully, he leaned in, wrapping his arms around Zenigata’s waist and pulling him oh so slowly towards the middle of the couch, his upper half falling on its own to the throw pillow propped up against the armrest. His head fell a little too fast for Lupin’s liking, and he winced, immediately checking to see if the man had woken up, but he was still out like a damned light. 

Lupin yanked off his shoes, laying them aside to be placed at the entrance later, and lifted Zenigata’s legs so that they sat atop the couch cushions. His thigh twitched, and for a moment, the thief thought he had been caught, but thankfully, it was nothing more than a muscle spasm. 

Once Zenigata was properly spread out on the couch, Lupin returned to his upper half, leaning down to once more wrap his arms ‘round the other man’s waist, one hand supporting his lower back while the other darted to the back of his neck so that he wouldn’t roll his head as Lupin lifted him into a sitting position once more. 

He stopped for a moment, nervous that he had gone too far and awoken the inspector, but once more, the fluttering of his eyelashes was nothing more than an idle movement. Lupin looked over his face once more, though, just to make sure. 

His lips looked softer than they had earlier. 

His features weren’t so sharp.

Ignoring whatever thought had just crossed his mind, Lupin went to carefully remove the enormous trenchcoat from Zenigata, slipping each arm through with precision and caution as though the man beneath his fingertips would fall apart at any given moment. Though, to be quite honest, given the fact that he was still asleep through all of this jostling, there was probably an enormous chance of that. 

Lupin slipped the coat out from under him and then, the hand on the back of Zenigata’s neck slipped to rest on his cheek as he lowered him once more to the throw pillow, thumb absently rubbing against his malnourished skin as his other hand lingered far too long on the inspector’s waist. 

“There you are,” he murmured, just barely above a whisper, using the coat he had just taken from Zenigata to toss it over him like a makeshift blanket. “nice and cozy, yeah?” He smoothed down the creases over Zenigata’s chest and legs and tucked a loose strand of gray hair behind his ear. “Y’know, you’re really rocking that salt and pepper thing, Pops. Didn’t even know you could  _ have  _ that much grey hair at forty-five,” he smiled, and his fingertips brushed across Zenigata’s cheek in a way that was completely and utterly unnecessary. 

Lupin tidied up the coffee table that Zenigata had been sitting at, and then placed his old, brown shoes by the entrance to the apartment just as he had planned. Before he finally left, he walked over to the lamp in the living room and clicked it off, not realizing how late it had gotten until the bulb went out and he was left in darkness. 

He stood still and silent for a moment, eyes glued to the spot that Zenigata was sleeping, heart skipping a beat or two before finally, he walked silently back to the kitchen. He climbed atop the counter once more, shimmied out of the window, and stepped into the frigid evening air. There was already a light dusting of snow beginning to form on the Fiat’s roof, and he stared at it the whole way down the fire escape, shoes  _ clank clank clank _ ing against the old, rusty metal. 

His stomach flipped. He shouldn’t have come. 

With a heavy, tired sigh, he pulled the car door open and slipped inside the driver’s seat, settling behind the wheel, the leather cold on his body as it had been left unattended for an hour or two. He slid the key into ignition and then turned it, the engine roaring to life, the Fiat beginning to rumble beneath him. 

His head hurt. He shouldn’t have come. 

Carefully, constantly checking his mirrors and behind his shoulder, he backed out of the alleyway, flicking on his headlights as he turned in the parking lot, accidentally startling a young woman and her child, who jumped at the sudden sight of the Fiat before dissolving into laughter. Lupin frowned, car creeping past the giddy pair and out of the parking lot, fingers absently flicking the right turn signal on as he waited for cars to pass and an opening for him to drive into. 

His mouth felt dry, and his eyes felt wet. He shouldn’t have come. 

He drove forward, shifting gears as his speed increased, focusing on the lights of passing buildings and the snow falling atop his windshield. Tomorrow, there would likely be a heavy blanket of it, muffling everything and bringing the world to a standstill. He wondered if Zenigata had a car or something to take himself to work, for last time, it seemed as though he had walked to and from his office. Lupin swallowed hard.

His heart ached and thrummed inside of his chest.

He shouldn’t have come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> octopus p*ssy call that tentaholes


	3. dog tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenigata has a fairly terrible day, but really, what's new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii everybody how r we doign today. boring chapter, jus kinda gettin the ball rolling :-]

It was cooler than usual, brisker than usual. Those were the first thoughts that popped into Zenigata’s muddled, hazy mind when his eyes fluttered open and he sat up on the couch, resting all of his weight on his elbows, his enormous coat which he had used as a blanket sliding off of him and onto the floor. 

Wait a moment. 

Though his eyes were sticky and crusted over with sleep, they managed to shoot open, and Zenigata sat ramrod straight, looking rapidly around, blinking fast, mouth opening and closing slightly as he searched the space around him, brow furrowed. He  _ hadn’t  _ used his jacket as a blanket-- matter of fact, he hadn’t even laid down on the couch. The last thing he remembered was reading through another report of the pyromaniac British couple, and then slowly watching as the words jumbled into an incoherent mess and his eyes drooped and his mind slowly filled with static and molasses. He most certainly hadn’t thought to protect himself from the chill with his coat. 

He looked down, expecting to see his mess of work below him. However, it was nonexistent. Since when did he have time to tidy up the coffee table? He remembered everything around him being in unkempt, messy, disorganized piles, papers spilling onto the floor and resting on the cushions next to him as he worked tirelessly on a case that he really and truly had absolutely  _ no  _ concern over. Now, however, they were neat, stacked side by side, not in any particular order, sure, but also not strewn about his entire living room. 

Had he randomly woken up in the middle of the night, cleaned up, and then gone back to sleep? And if so, why didn’t he just make the trip to his bed? Had he really been  _ that  _ tired that he couldn’t walk the fifteen-or-so feet from his couch to his bedroom door? 

And, furthermore, on top of all of this mess, _why_ the hell had he left his air conditioner running in early December? He was not a winter person and never had been, preferring everything around him to be warm and cozy during the cold months, turning his normally tidy-ish apartment (only made that way because he didn’t have time to actually live in it and make any sort of mess) into the cave of a hibernating bear. Blankets and pillows everywhere, warm water bottles forgotten on chairs and on top of pillows, heating pads sitting by the electrical outlets, windows fastened shut, curtains drawn, lamps flicked on with their warm, yellow bulbs. He wouldn’t have done something so careless as to turn down the temperature to his apartment low enough to make his teeth chatter, that just wasn’t like him, and--

\--Zenigata’s head swiveled to face his kitchen, catching sight of the window as he continued to look around his apartment, the confusion streaked across his face etching deeper into his skin. The air conditioner had not been left on. 

_ The window had been left open.  _

And beneath it, in a neat, almost atmospheric little pile, was a small clump of crisp, white snow, slowly melting on his kitchen countertop. Flakes of it drifted in through the open glass, settling cheerfully at the top, some finding themselves unfortunately hitting the floral curtains and melting immediately upon contact. 

Now, Zenigata knew that he was scatterbrained. He knew he was clumsy and forgetful and, come on, let’s be real, just plain  _ stupid,  _ but would he actually, really, truly leave a window open all night long during the wintertime? When snow had been forecasted by the weathermen? While he slept in the room over with nothing but a ratty, moth-eaten coat to cover him? 

He made an indigent little noise, like an old dog waiting by the door as he stood up from the couch, immediately trying to fold in on himself and huddle close to yesterday’s work clothes, rubbing his hands together and shuffling forward. His socks-- which, by the way, he didn’t remember taking his shoes off-- shuffled against the rug, and then on the hardwood, which was so cold that it sent shivers up and down his whole body. He breathed warm air onto his palms, hoping to trap it while he made the perilous journey to his window, almost entirely sure that his lips had gone blue by this point. 

“Maybe I’m going senile a little early,” he murmured into his shaking fingertips, wondering just how many grey hairs had sprouted from his head in the past two years alone. He was what, forty-five? And was already experiencing dementia. Just his fucking luck.

He entered the kitchen, tile icy cold on his feet, eyes darting over to the digital clock on his oven. It was around 5:30 AM, and he had just about an hour to get ready for the day and leave for work. Of course, getting “ready for the day” meant a shower, a fresh change of clothes, and a few minutes to brush his teeth, but no breakfast and no time to actually groom himself. He wondered if the stubble on his chin made him look older or handsomer. 

A grimace crossed his face as he stood in front of the little self-made snowman. Probably the former, he thought dully, scooping up awkward handfuls and tossing them out onto the fire escape, hands almost instantly going numb from the cold sensation. 

Oh, well. He had never been much of a looker anyhow, even when he was younger, and while he made his slow, stiff way to the bathroom after getting rid of as much snow as he could, he was grateful that Interpol didn’t expect much from him in the first place. That was the good thing about being such a dolt all the time-- since nobody really thought much of you, you could practically do the bare minimum and make it through the day like that. Of course, Zenigata was doing a lot more than the bare minimum, he always had, but even then he was a little bit too clumsy to maintain any sort of success in his life. 

He rounded the corner into his small, frigid bathroom, avoiding the shower curtain that he was almost positive was beginning to grow mold and gazed into the mirror sitting dully above the white, porcelain sink. It doubled as a medicine cabinet, and there were several bright, orange pill bottles with the classic white screw-on tops that were meant for anybody with basic motor skills. To be quite honest, a few of them took the poor inspector several minutes to figure out, and it was during moments of weakness like those that he was infinitely grateful he lived by himself. 

He looked into the reflection-- tired eyes, tired mouth, tired jaw, tired brow, tired, tired, tired.  _ There you are,  _ he thought glumly, awkwardly pawing at the raccoon-esque dark circles that were getting darker by the moment. This case was really beating him up, huh? And he wasn’t even directly  _ involved  _ in it. Sure, yes, technically being the main person in charge of collecting evidence from written articles and files did count as “directly involved,” but it was hardly the kind of thing he was accustomed to. He liked being on scene, right up to the action, nose-to-nose with whomever he was chasing. 

Of course, most of the time, the person he was nose-to-nose with was Lupin. Which he didn’t mind. But maybe he would think differently if he were to face this Barnett couple; he would never know, though, because he was left behind with the paperwork. 

Deciding that he should probably stop feeling sorry for himself and just get the process of preparing for the day over with, he turned away from the mirror and began to loosen his tie, fingers feeling a lot heavier than they had mere seconds ago. The white buttons to his blouse were next, always a little too big for their slots, so it took him several seconds of awkward fumbling to slip them through. Maybe his hands were just too big, but whatever the case, it was tedious and he was far too tired for this kind of bullshit at five in the morning. Maybe he should just ask for a raise; he would never get it, but hey, it never hurts to try, right? 

He let his button-up slowly slide down his arms, feeling the weariness of his bones start to truly weigh down on his body, the fabric slipping off of his wrists and away from his hands and crumpling to the floor in an off-white pool around his feet as his muscles ached to go back to bed. Absently, as he did that awkward little one-legged hop dance around his bathroom to shuck off those God-awful khakis Interpol’s dress code required of him, he wondered just how long the day would be. He had stayed far too late last time he went in, so maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ he had gotten a headstart and would be able to pack it up early today. It was a stretch, sure, but it was one he was willing to reach for. At this point in time, he was so damn tired that he clung to every single morsel of hope that he could hold on to. 

Shirt, pants, socks, tie, boxers. The articles of clothing were tossed carelessly into the little hamper in the corner of the room and Zenigata pawed around his faucet for a while, trying to adjust the water from glacial temperatures to, if he was lucky, maybe lukewarm. 

While he waited for the creaky pipes to heat up, water pouring in a heavy stream from the showerhead, he hopped from foot to foot, hugging his arms around himself, trying to warm up as, miserable and cold, he longed deeply for a hot cup of coffee. At the sluggish rate he was going, though, he’d be lucky if he could nab some in a cheap styrofoam cup at the breakroom in his office. 

It was a bad day for the water heater, as it turned out, for after waiting almost two minutes for the water to heat up, Zenigata was forced to suck in a deep breath and hop into an icy stream that pelted his back and scalp like he owed it money. For a moment he just sat there, teeth chattering, constantly moving and realizing that all of his body heat had been sapped, procrastinating literally everything that he had to do. 

Every single task ahead felt like a weight added to his shoulders. Even things as simple as picking up the bar of soap resting on the small, white shelf built into the wall of the shower felt like a full day of labor, and as he scrubbed away he felt like he wouldn’t be physically able to get to work that day or any day the rest of the week. 

Why was it that this case was so draining? How did it manage to strip him of every little bit of energy and motivation that he had? Was it simply because of his adamant hatred for paperwork, or was it a  _ different  _ reason? A reason that he knew to be perfectly true but absolutely refused to face? 

He was definitely being overworked, that much was true. But he was used to that. That was just a fact of his life, something he would have to deal with for every case he would become involved with from here on out to forever. And sitting in an office chair, listening to that wretched analog clock  _ tick tick tick _ ing away behind him certainly didn’t help, not even a little bit. 

However, there was  _ another  _ factor that made this case particularly exhausting. And that, of course, was that he didn’t care for it even a little. The Barnett couple were not people that he was too concerned about; nobody was, to be honest, because had they not started arson they would be just like any other petty thieves. At this point, the only reason they hadn’t been caught was sheer, dumb luck. 

No, this case didn’t intrigue Zenigata in the very least and he knew the exact reason why. He knew it damn well and he had known it for years, knew that there would only ever be one person and one person alone that he would never tire of chasing. Would never want to  _ stop _ chasing.

When Lupin’s annoying, brash laughter and impish grin and starry eyes flashed through his mind, he pretended to be very interested in his shampoo bottle. 

Zenigata’s thick knit sweater didn’t do much to protect him against the biting wind and show that rose to his heels. It was nothing extreme, and he had certainly seen worse, but it was still far too early in the morning to be dealing with this type of weather. 

As he settled into his car, his fingers shook so terribly that he manually had to settle them as he attempted to slide the key into the ignition. He let his mind toy around with the thought of actually going on break today, taking his hour lunch to walk somewhere nearby and eat a hot meal that wasn’t microwave noodles. Maybe even pick up some coffee on the way back, if he had time; he would certainly need it, for, even if he didn’t stay as late as he had yesterday, there was still much to do, and he wouldn’t be home before the sun sank below the horizon.

_ The harder I work, the faster this case will end,  _ he thought to himself while his engine roared to life and he slung his arm over the back of his seat, pushing himself up to see out through the back window, grumbling something incoherent as he pawed at the switch to his windshield wipers, hoping that they would be enough to scrape away at the snow gathering on his windows. 

Thankfully, nothing had completely iced over yet, and the snow was powder-soft, flaking away from his car with relative ease, leaving him a clear area to look out over while he slowly backed out. He would have to be extra careful today, for he knew that people got reckless and stupid and needlessly panicky in foul weather, and he wasn’t about to get rear-ended by some poor kid who had just gotten their license but didn’t have enough experience to know how to work around a measly bit of snow. 

He drove forward at a rate no faster than a slow crawl, eyes drooping slightly, mouth tasting sour despite having brushed his teeth. His steering was lazy as he leaned against the door, head almost resting on the chilly window. Work was not far away-- in fact, he could walk to it, and he had been for quite a while. Now, however, with the addition of snow, he didn’t feel like trudging through the white mess and getting his socks wet; he had done it before, fully underestimating the power that wet socks had over him. They had ruined his entire day in the past, and he wasn’t about to let them get the best of him  _ this  _ time. 

So, he didn’t mind the slow rate that he was going. Didn’t mind getting honked at from impatient drivers that didn’t understand that it wasn’t  _ him  _ who was going a measly 30 mph in a 40 area, it was the guy in front of him, who was clearly having tire troubles. Twice, he tried merging, tried getting in front of the rust-red truck, and twice, he found that it was practically impossible. Traffic was just going to have to be heavy that day, and he was just going to have to deal with it. 

He reached down with his right hand, taking the wheel in his left, and began to fiddle with the radio. Channel one-- a talk show. Boring as ever, dull, tired old men talking about politicians and celebrities, and a dull, tired old woman doing interviews with dull, tired old people. It depressed him to no end, and he typically avoided it. And avoid it he did, turning the dial slowly. Channel two, modern pop, not quite his thing but desperate times would occasionally call for desperate measures. Channel three, mostly commercials, and both channels five and seven shared the exact same fate. Four was classical and jazz, six was another talk show, this one a little peppier, focusing on scandals and affairs, eight was static, and then came channel nine, which was a general amalgamation of music. Nothing particular, but nothing obscure, either. Right now, it was slow and quiet and soft, a love song, the inspector presumed, though the lyrics told otherwise. It was too sad for his grey morning, and everything else was so, incredibly, painfully boring that he feared that listening to it for too long would lull him right to sleep. 

With nothing on the radio, Zenigata sighed and clicked it off, returning back to the silence, which was only amplified by the snow around him. 

He wondered if anybody was already at the office. Maybe they brought coffee. Or, better yet, breakfast, which he hadn’t eaten except for the occasional bowl of ramen noodles at four AM, which, he supposed counted as  _ some  _ sort of breakfast, right? That was in the morning. Three AM was far too close to midnight, and five AM was… well, it was his average work schedule. He would usually wake up around that time (though he must admit, he  _ did  _ sleep in a little. But hey, what would thirty minutes do to make him late?), and by that point, he wouldn’t have a chance for a luxury such as. You know. Food. So four AM was the closest he had ever gotten to actually eating in the morning, and he wasn’t going to complain. Take what you can get, right?

He sat dully in the car for another ten minutes thinking about the passage of time, deciding the cutoff for morning (5 AM), night (10 PM), and afternoon (5 PM). And then, he spent another ten minutes counting backward from a thousand, but gave up after reaching about 700; he kept getting distracted by little goings-on that were surrounding him, such as the big, yellow dog getting its morning walk (its owner was a young girl, probably barely even a teenager, and the poor thing was getting dragged along by her heels) and a group of ten or so fat pigeons huddling nice and close in the boxy letters of a storefront. They looked so cozy, all holed up and fluffy between the letters of some sort of forgettable supermarket. Zenigata envied them deeply. 

Another ten minutes passed as the inspector thought about songs he knew and hummed them, tapping along, fingers making a soft, barely audible thumping on his steering wheel. Ten more went by, and the streetlamps flickered off, the sun kissing the sky and painting it apricot. Ten more, ten more, ten more. An hour. 

He was late for work by the point, and by God, he should have just walked. He would’ve gotten there much quicker, and even though his feet would be cold, most likely all the way up to his ankles, as a matter of fact, he would still be able to get a cup of that shitty instant coffee. As terrible as it was, it was hot, and that was what he needed right now. 

A car cut in front of him, making him slam his foot to the brakes, eyes widening as a surprised yelp tore itself from between his lips. Traffic slowed down just a little bit more. With a sigh that quickly turned into a long, tired groan, he slammed his head against his wheel, resting it there, mentally preparing himself for the lecture that the commissioner was surely to tear him up over when he finally arrived at work. 

“You’re late, Koichi,” came a dull, monotonous voice, and Zenigata was reminded of the tired old people on channel one. 

“Forgive me, sir,” he said, standing up straight, chin up, eyes struggling to meet the commissioners. Not because he was ashamed of himself, but because his boss was five feet tall, and lowering his head was not an option. “I got caught up in some terrible traffic, sir, and was unable to arrive on time,” he said, stooping into a short, slightly awkward bow. “I apologize,” 

“Aren’t you within walking distance, Inspector?” The commissioner asked, arching a black, bushy eyebrow, pudgy fingers laced as he held his hands out over his potbelly.

“I-- er, well, yes,” Zenigata frowned, hating himself as his words fell into a jumble of awkward, pitiful stutters. “but, sir,” he said, one hand drifting to the back of his neck. “the  _ snow,  _ sir,” 

“Are you not a police officer, Inspector?” 

“Well, yessir, but--” 

“Do you not have a gun at your side? Are you not well acquainted with life-threatening situations? With intense danger?” The commissioner’s eyebrow raised even further, if possible. From his peripheral, Zenigata caught a few of his co-workers craning their necks to get a peek at the show. His cheeks flushed hot red. 

“Yessir,” he murmured, trying not to hang his head. 

“So, if you are so familiar with tough circumstances, surely a little bit of  _ snow  _ won’t stop you, will it?” 

“No, but, you see, if I walked here in the snow then my feet would get wet, and--” Zenigata quickly shut his mouth, realizing his mistake the very moment it left his big mouth. The commissioner’s eyes widened, mouth stretching into a grin. Oh, boy. 

“Your feet would get wet? Your  _ feet would get wet?  _ Is that really what’s going to bring you down, Zenigata? You’ve been  _ shot at,  _ for Chrissake, and you’re worried about your  _ feet getting wet?”  _ The man cackled, throwing his round head back and laughing, clutching his stomach for emphasis. Zenigata turned away, and suddenly, his sweater was a hell of a lot warmer than it had been earlier. 

When the commissioner came back from his little laughing fit, he sighed, taking a moment to wipe a fake tear away from his eye, snorting light-heartedly. “You are a spectacle indeed, Zenigata. We won’t let this happen again, ah?” He asked, cocking his head to the side, giving the inspector a good-natured slap to his arm. 

“No, sir,” 

“Good. Now, I won’t keep you any longer-- there’s a meeting upstairs. They started about twenty minutes ago. If you hurry, I’m sure you won’t make too big of an entrance,” the commissioner winked, and Zenigata felt his stomach fall right to the floor. Had he really been late on the  _ one day  _ there was a possibility he would actually be able to do something more than just paperwork? 

“Thank you, sir. Excuse me, sir,” he bowed-- curt, quick, kind-- and then walked away, ears steaming hot as he heard the commissioner chuckle softly to himself. His pace was brisk, shoes clicking on the tile floor, 

The further away he got, the quicker he walked, ‘til, at last, he broke out into a full-on sprint, huffing and puffing his way up the stairs, really beginning to feel his several years of cigarettes catching up to him and weighing down heavily on his lungs, his breaths becoming quick and ragged when he reached the top step of the stairwell. He rounded the corner, eyeing the door at the end of the clean, white hallway, hoping that he wasn’t  _ too  _ entirely late. The meeting could be just beginning or ending, as these things typically ranged from fifteen short minutes to three, long, painful hours. He wasn’t sure which one he wished he would walk in on. 

He reached the metal door, sea-blue paint in desperate need of a new coat, and slammed his hand down on the handle. He pushed into the door with his shoulder, practically flinging himself inside, determination set deep and heavy inside of his chest. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said loudly, effectively drawing everybody’s eyes onto him (he had probably done that when he burst in so dramatically, though). “I had a bad run-in with some heavy traffic,” 

“...Hello, Inspector Zenigata,” Agent Brandy said in her stern, thick voice. She was standing at the head of a long table, hands crossed behind her back, brows drawn close and tight. Her thin lips were shaped in an expression of… maybe disgust. Zenigata couldn’t be sure. “I’m glad to see you could join us today, though I must admit, the way your men boasted of your sensitivity to time truly had my hopes high for you,” she said, silently gesturing to an empty seat next to one of the inspector’s subordinates. A young man in his early thirties, starry-eyed and ginger-haired, and had moved to Japan from Ireland four or five years ago. He turned his head away from Zenigata’s gaze, cheeks flushed pink, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs as his hands rested atop the table. 

“Y-yes ma’am, thank you,” Zenigata murmured, bowing briefly before walking over to sit next to the man, his shoes nearly deafening in the intense silence of the room. He could just  _ feel  _ all of the pairs of eyes on him, and his embarrassment grew tenfold. 

“You know, Inspector, when I said that I had doubted you earlier today, several of those  _ same  _ men who bragged about your time-telling abilities had also told me just how committed to your job you were. Would you agree with that?” Brandy asked, leaning one hand on the table. 

“I...” Zenigata began, settling down in his seat slowly, searching her face for some kind of cue. The hell was he supposed to say for that. “I--”

“And yet, here you are. You look quite cozy, I’ll say that much, but I’ll admit, I had no idea that officers were allowed to wear sweaters on formal patrols. Is there no dress code here?” She cut him off, looking him up and down, eyes brimming with judgment and, to be quite honest, possible hatred. 

“A-- a patrol, ma’am? I thought I was assigned to look over evidence and paperwork, and usually, when people work in the office, they…” he trailed off, slowly getting quieter and quieter ‘til he was just plain silent, knowing that he had answered incorrectly. A fish hook nabbed Brandy’s eyebrow. 

“You weren’t aware of your assignment for today?”

“You never told me, ma’am,” 

Agent Brandy sniffed, turning away from him and strolling around the room. “Well, now you know,” she paused her little walk around the room to shoot him one of the nastiest, meanest glares he had ever received in his entire life. Not only did he see his life flash before his very eyes, but he experienced all five stages of grief in about the span of two and a half seconds. Today was going to be a lot longer than he thought, wouldn’t it? 

Zenigata crossed his arms, leaning against the passenger side of the police cruiser, feeling the chill of the window right through to his bones. The driver, a woman about his age, looked just as bored as he did, if not more so. She kept leaning forward and pressing her forehead to the top of the wheel, sucking in air through her teeth and then puffing her cheeks out as she exhaled, seemingly struggling to keep her eyes open as she followed behind about five other cars going at a painfully slow crawl.

They were currently investigating the alleged hideout of the Barnett pair, or at least the last place that they were  _ thought  _ to have used. It was a small, abandoned shack, one that nestled quite cozily in the snow surrounding it, broken windows frozen over, dead weeds hanging limp and dry from the cracks in the old, rotting wood. The entire place had the distinct reek of sulfur, as Zenigata and his driving buddy had stated to one another three or five times. They didn’t have much else to talk about. 

From the looks of the outside, there wasn’t anybody actually  _ in  _ the building, but of course, Zenigata was not authorized to check for himself. No, he was simply patrolling  _ around  _ the area, looking for obvious hints of their existence like car tracks or objects left behind. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see  _ any  _ of those because of the snow that was currently resting in a thick, cold blanket across everything that he could see. He tried to tell Agent Brandy this, tried to explain that maybe he and a few others should raid the building  _ just  _ in case, but she told him that if he was going to show up late and out of uniform then he probably wasn’t qualified. The condescending tone of her voice stung more than the words themselves, and Zenigata found himself sulking the entire unpleasant drive. 

He peeked out the window, using the sleeve of his sweater to make a clear patch in the foggy glass and gaze at the small squad of four people that the Agent  _ did  _ send in. All four were apart of Zenigata’s team, and at this point, he really felt as though she was holding some sort of bias against him. His expression soured, mouth pulling downward at the corners, and he turned back to the road ahead as the woman next to him drummed her fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel. He leaned into his fist, bonking his head gently against the window before peering over at her. 

“Song in your head?” He asked dully, looking for something,  _ anything,  _ to spark  _ some  _ sort of meager conversation so that he didn’t just have to sit here in painfully awkward silence and wait to be driven back to the office so that he could do… more paperwork. Hooray. 

“Hm?” The woman asked, blinking and turning to face him, her fingers pausing in their incessant drumming. 

“You were tapping your fingers to a beat, I think. Do you have a song stuck in your head?” He repeated, suddenly realizing that he sounded like he was hitting on her, and instantly feeling guilty. No, he was not trying to flirt with this poor woman who probably hated this God-awful “patrol” as much as he did. He just couldn’t stand to  _ not  _ say something. 

“Oh,” she said softly, an odd expression crossing her face before she smiled. It was probably fake, and Zenigata felt even guiltier. “yeah, sorry. I think it was ah-- what was that one song? That one Anri song?” She asked him, and it was pretty obvious she remembered it. She probably wanted something to talk about, too. “The-- ah--  _ baby love me again, _ something… something… something,” her voice trailed off, and Zenigata scrunched up his face for a moment or two. He had heard it before, as it had come out last year and was  _ everywhere  _ on the radio. He liked it secretly, as he did a lot of things. 

He murmured the lyrics she had already sung, nodding his head along to a beat he swore he memorized from so many lazy afternoons driving home half-asleep with iced coffee melting in the cupholder next to his seat. 

“Love me again… love me again… oh!” He blinked, turning to her.  _ “Although our love won’t--”  _

_ “Although our love won’t come back,  _ yes! Yes, thank you, I don’t know how I forgot the catchiest part of the song,” she finished the lyrics for him, looking slightly relieved. He probably wore a similar expression on his face. “shoot, what was that song again? Something like Last Summer Whisper?” 

“Hell if I know,” he snorted, shrugging slightly. “I completely forgot it existed for like, three months, to tell you the truth,” 

“So did I. I heard it yesterday driving home, though, totally sparked something in me,” 

“I’m gonna have it in my head the rest of the day now, aren’t I?” 

“Oooh, sorry. Yes, you are. That one’s on me,” she smiled, doing yet  _ another  _ turn around the shack, eyeing the building up and down. Zenigata did the same, staring at the front door for a few moments, waiting for those four men to burst through the door with the criminals shackled up, or for the walkie-talkie in front of him to exclaim that backup was desperately needed, for the British pair were caught, and they weren’t going down without a fight.

When neither of those events occurred, both he and the complete stranger he was driving with sighed, her biting the inside of his cheek, him bumping his head to the window in pure, exhausted exasperation. This was going to turn out to be a total waste of time, wasn’t it? 

Absently, he began to hum to the tune of whatever song they had just been discussing (he had already forgotten the name of it), occasionally murmuring a word that he managed to remember, but ultimately replacing all of the lyrics with “er,” “uh,” “something,” and various, quiet humming noises. After a few moments of this, he realized that he was probably ticking off the poor woman next to him, however, just as he was about to glance over and apologize for his unbridled tiresome behavior, she began to sing, too, voice lacking every ounce of feeling or pep that was put into the original song.

So, together, as they circled around the building three more times, and then as they watched the squadron Brandy had sent in come out completely empty-handed, Zenigata and the woman he had never met once before in his life (but had probably worked beside ever since he joined the force) sung the wrong lyrics to a song they barely remembered. 

Another cup of instant noodles and nothing else. Another late night where he would be the last to exit. Another seventeen hours of trying to balance all of his work on five hours of sleep. And, the cherry on top, the real kicker, the best part of his night: he was fresh out of gas, and had to push his car for twenty minutes to the gas station for it had died on him as he pulled out of the parking lot. 

His fingers were freezing over, and he could barely keep his nose from running, pausing to sniffle and snort every three seconds. He had developed an itch in his throat a few hours ago but now? Now it was this awful, uncomfortable burning sensation, one that made him want to cough both of his lungs up onto the snowy pavement below his feet (which had, of course, gotten wet due to how he was trudging recklessly through the icy, wet white). 

He reached out to grab the gas pump, however, was caught by a sneeze which he blew into his elbow, groaning lightly. It stung his nose and his eyes, and he swore to God if he was getting sick he might just find the Barnett couple  _ himself  _ and strangle them with his bare fucking hands. 

However, it was probably nothing. Probably bad air, probably the chill of the wind, probably the freezing cold temperatures that were making his knees begin to grow stiff. He couldn’t be sick, didn’t have the time to, and besides, even if he was, what difference would that make? It wasn’t like he would get any sort of break from his job, he was  _ already  _ on thin ice. So, as usual, he would just have to suck it up and pretend to ignore it. He had done it once before, and he would do it again. 

He pulled the gas pump from his car’s fuel tank and set it back on its place, screwing the lid to his tank back on with shivering fingers, fumbling several times, and having to start over because he could barely move his stiff muscles. He finally managed to get the top screwed on tight, and then shut the little metal door with a  _ clang  _ before dragging his feet across the pavement to the driver’s side door. Snow built up over the top of his soaked shoes, and he wondered how early he would have to leave tomorrow morning to beat the traffic and avoid being yelled at by very short people with a lot of power. Maybe he would just set up camp-- it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, and it would save him plenty of trouble. He would annoy the commissioner with his constant presence, but what else was new? He knew how much the guy hated his guts. In fact, his boss was so obvious with his disapproval for Zenigata that it would hurt his feelings if he didn’t feel the exact same way. 

As he slid into his car, he sneezed violently into his elbow, groaning lightly as he sniffled and rubbed at his eyes, the itch in his throat growing even further. He ignored it, however, and started the car, engine popping to life beneath him and rumbling slowly. His gas tank, now full, didn’t give him any grief as he pulled out of the convenience store parking lot, flicking on his left blinker as he waited for an opening in passing cars. 

There weren’t many, and only two high beams passed him by before he was able to pull out into the highway, a yawn creeping slowly up his chest and misting his eyes. The day was, at long last  _ over.  _ It had been terrible and it had been inhumanly long and it had been so,  _ so  _ boring and, to be quite frank, embarrassing, but he had managed to push past it. Now, he was going home. 

He cranked the heater up all the way, before trying to fiddle with the radio once more, hoping that music late at night was better than early in the morning. Much to his relief, he was right, and he stopped at a crackly station playing something slow, something soft, something sweet. The swing of trumpets and thrum of violins and the croon of a woman’s voice, smooth as honey, filled his senses as he drove, eyes heavy, drooping, tired. 

From time to time, he would peek at a neighboring lane and see someone at the wheel of a car, their expression much the same as his. That sleepy, sort of numb, weary one. Their hands would be loose on the wheel and their heads would tip forward as they stared at the road, probably trying their absolute hardest to keep their eyes open as the dull rumble of tires against the road lulled them further and further into their sleepy daze. 

Zenigata sighed softly, right blinker clicking so gently as he switched it on and merged into a turn lane, knowing that he would be home soon. It wouldn’t be much-- it never was-- but at least he could sleep there. At least it was cozy, at least it was warm and familiar and empty. In fact, the emptiness of it was one of the worst and best parts of it. 

He was tired of catering to other people, tired of having to force every little ounce of himself into his work just to get a  _ smidge  _ of praise from the commissioner. At home, he didn’t have to worry about that. At home, he knew who he was and he knew  _ what  _ he was and he knew that he wasn’t really going to offer anything special. And so, with nobody else but him to judge (and, at this point, he already knew all of his flaws, so he was quite numb to this), he was free to drop his guard for a little bit. Even if it was just a few hours to get some sleep, he was alone, and he could be vulnerable. 

Of course, though, the cons that came with coming home to absolutely nobody were… fairly clear. 

Zenigata seldom got lonely. He was a solitary person and such a workaholic that he didn’t do well at  _ all  _ in committed relationships (obviously). It wasn’t like him to crave the company of another, to long for attention, for touch, for  _ anything,  _ really. But sometimes, when the day was long, when he was beaten and exhausted and weary all the way down to his very bones, entering his dusty, unoccupied apartment was unbearable. 

The place he had grown to call home was devoid of light and warmth save for his space heaters and dumb-looking antique lamps. The bed was cold, the cushions sitting atop the chairs were supple and unused, there weren’t scuffs from new picture frames on his walls or extra laundry detergent sitting in the cupboard above his washing machine or leftovers in styrofoam boxes. No socks left lying about various rooms, wet towels on the bathroom floor, open books or magazines on the coffee table. There were no extra keys or spare lighters, no variety in the handwriting of the long-forgotten shopping lists pinned by souvenir magnets on his refrigerator, no warm hands or gentle expressions or curved lips. 

He didn’t mind, though. Not really. He liked living where he did, and whether he had somebody there or not didn’t make much of a difference because, right now, he had to focus on his work. But as he exited his car and looked up at the apartment building he had grown so familiar with, chill biting at his nose and the tips of his ears, a quiet sort of sadness sunk into his chest.

That, or he was just feeling another sneeze, which tore itself from him and left him doubled over, eyes red and watery as a man exiting his car tossed him a strange look. 

“I’m home,” Zenigata called to the dust bunnies living in the crevices of his bookshelf and behind the couch and in the corners and underneath the cabinets as he kicked off his shoes at the entrance, not bothering to line them up with the wall. There wasn’t anybody to impress, so why should he care? 

He trudged forward, feeling the weight of the day fully set in and gently tug at his body. Every bone, every organ, every muscle was begging him to lay down and sleep, and who was he to deny them that? He was tired. He had  _ been  _ tired. For years, now. Just a constant state of pure exhaustion. His head would fuzz over and his eyes would droop and his fingers would feel so heavy every single day of his damned life, and today was no different. 

Not bothering to change out of his clothes (again), he walked past his couch and shuffled across the hallway, keeping his gaze down at the hardwood floor creaking beneath him as to not make eye contact with any of the ghosts in the picture frames. His legs felt as though they were traversing through jelly, and it took him everything in his will to stay standing as he urged his knees not to buckle beneath him. If he could just make it a  _ few more steps…  _

...aaaaand bullseye. He practically fell through his bedroom door, groaning lightly as he closed it behind him with the sole of his foot, not bothering to go back and  _ properly  _ shut it when he heard it bounce off of the frame and begin to creak slowly back open. He was too tired to care, and his head was beginning to swim as a dull throb pulsed in the back of his skull. His eyes stung, as did his throat and nose, and he was sure that he had come down with something but, of course, that wouldn’t matter. He would still go into work tomorrow, still do nothing but paperwork, and still come home late every fucking night just to crash into a bed that was probably dustier than some of the books he had in his bookshelf in the living room. 

When Zenigata fell into bed facefirst, only taking a few moments to adjust and squirm his way up to the pillow, his comforter felt warmer and fluffier than ever before. It wasn’t cold as it had always been, wasn’t flat or musty from several weeks of not being used. Truly, it felt the way a cloud looked, and he began to melt into unconsciousness the moment he settled into place. 

However, a lone thought streaked across his mind just before the world around him faded to black, a thought that he knew was going to occupy his mind the rest of the day tomorrow. 

Since when had he washed his bedsheets, and since when had he started using floral fabric softener? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fuck is oklahoma and why on this holy monday are we driving there impromptu


	4. gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You could argue that poking around somebody's apartment while they're gone is somewhat of a crime, but technically speaking, Lupin and his friends aren't "poking around." They're cleaning. And if they happen to find something, well-- at least they put it back tidier than it was earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so dumb HBFSHFBJDBFJDGB

“So you called us all the way here…” Fujiko began, letting Lupin tie a scarf ‘round her head to push back her wavy red hair and keep it out of her face, knowing full well that she could do it herself. “...to _clean?”_

Jigen and Goemon looked at one another, frowning lightly as they both leaned against Zenigata’s closed apartment door, Goemon holding a bucket containing several feather dusters and disinfectant wipes. Ahead of them was, indeed, the inspector’s apartment, though the only proof of his existence was from the mess of papers and cold coffee cups on the coffee table. Lupin noticed that, since the last time he had been there, it had doubled in size. 

“Well, yeah, but not _actually_ cleaning. See-- oh, Goemon, do you want one? I have an extra,” Lupin interrupted himself to offer the samurai another scarf, this one with floral patterns. At first, it looked as though he was going to reject the offer, but then, absently, his hand drifted up to rest upon his thick, black hair. 

“Mayb-- yes,” he muttered, leaning forward from the door, stretching out his hand to take the cloth, standing up straight once he began to tie it onto his head. Jigen shot him an odd look, and all he could do was shrug. The gunman rolled his eyes before reaching up to push a strand of loose hair back into the scarf. Goemon leaned into it ever so slightly, though quickly stepped away when he noticed Fujiko’s arched eyebrow.

“Anyways, as I was saying,” Lupin continued, turning away from Fujiko, leaning down and lifting one foot to pry his shoe off. “we aren’t going to _fully_ clean the place, just some simple stuff. Like dusting, maybe organizing his pantry, taking a whack at the grit between his tile,” he explained, hopping around awkwardly and out-of-balance as he took the other shoe off. “nothin’ very big. It won’t take too long, I promise,” 

“We know _what_ we’re doing here, Lupin,” Jigen piped up, reaching into his breast pocket to pull out a cigarette. When Fujiko held out her hand, he grunted, placing it in her palm. “we want to know _why,”_ once again, his fingers dove into his breast pocket, plucking yet another cigarette from the carton and putting it firmly between his teeth. He patted around his pockets. “you have a light?” 

“Well, isn’t that reason obvious?” Lupin asked, stepping forward and rummaging around in his own pocket, hands returning with a fat, silver Zippo lighter. He flicked it a couple of times ‘til the flame burst from the end. “I’m thinkin’ it’s a domino effect. Zenigata’s apartment gets cleaned, boosts his motivation, and then finally, he’ll haul ass to get his stupid new case finished!” 

“And what’s that got to do with _us?”_ Jigen snorted, leaning forward and letting the thief light his cigarette for him, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What do we get from this?” 

“Oh, well, you know,” Lupin said, waving the gunman off, turning to walk deeper into the apartment. “now, don’t forget everybody! We’re only dusting for today, nothing too obvious. Wouldn’t want him to notice, right?” 

“Why don’t we want him to…?” Fujiko began to say, kicking her heels off in a much less neat way than Lupin had, expression incredulous. Lupin, however, pretended he didn’t hear her, instead strolling confidently up to Goemon and bending at the waist to pluck a feather duster from the bucket. He idly brushed the soft bits against his cheek, returning to the living room and beginning to assess the place. 

“It won’t take long, I swear. The windows and that bookshelf over in the corner--” he gestured to the tall, dark, oak shelf. “--are the dustiest things here. Then, we just do a bit of mopping and scraping along his tile floors, and we’ll be golden,” 

Jigen and Goemon both opened their mouths to say something, but quickly shut them when they realized the other was trying to speak. There was a pause, and then they tried again, only to have the same thing happen. Lupin and Fujiko turned to look at them, blinking. 

“...You go first,” Goemon finally said, cheeks tinted pink. Jigen’s suffered the same fate. 

“Thanks,” he coughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “anyways, Lupin, is this a one-time thing? Or are you planning on wasting our time here ‘til we’ve cleaned and aired Pops’ entire apartment?” Beneath the brim of his hat, Lupin knew that there was a glare in those dark grey eyes. “Listen, man, I love Zenigata just as much as you do, but--”

“It’s not about _loving_ him, moron,” Lupin interrupted, chest feeling suddenly tight and warm, heavily clouded and on the defense. Jigen looked at him, eyes wide. Goemon’s expression was one that Lupin couldn’t read. “it’s about _needing_ him,” the thief placed his hands atop his hips, sure that he had won the argument. 

When nobody said anything, instead exchanging uncomfortable, strangely knowing glances, as though they were in on a secret that Lupin didn’t know, the thief’s expression soured even more. 

“For the heist, jackasses,” he spat, though even _he_ wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. 

“...Right, okay. Why, exactly, do we need him for the heist?” Jigen frowned, confusion etched into the laugh lines around his mouth. 

When Lupin couldn’t find an answer, he just rolled his eyes, turning to face Goemon. “What is it that you were gonna say, Goe?” He asked, and the samurai only blinked, awkwardly adjusting the scarf around his head. 

“Oh,” he said, pausing a moment as he tightened it. “um. I was just going to tell you that we didn’t bring any mops,” when he finished, Jigen shot him a dirty look, and he only shrugged, shoving a feather duster into the gunman’s hands. 

“That’s fine,” Lupin shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sure Pops will have one somewhere in here. I mean, he’s not… he’s not _home_ often, but he still _lives_ here, right?” He pondered aloud, voice trailing off as his eyes scanned the room, head following in suit. The others, though a little skeptical, didn’t say anything else about the matter, instead toeing off shoes and rolling up sleeves and slipping quietly out of jackets to hang them up on the coatrack. Jigen even hung his hat up, taking a moment to push his bangs out of his eyes, shifting his cigarette around in his mouth for a little while. He was the first to step out of the entryway, socks padding against mostly hardwood, his palm finding Lupin’s shoulder. A halfhearted half-grin tugged onto his thin, cracked lips. 

“Okay, fine. We need him for the heist or whatever. But if I find his collection of Lupin the Third nudes I’m leaving,” he snorted. Playfully, Lupin bumped the gunman’s ribs with his elbow, relaxing a little.

“You won’t, don’t worry. I always tell him to hide them well whenever I send ‘em,” he winked, and Jigen only rolled his eyes before leaving the thief’s side with a final little push to his cheek, letting out a low whistle as he looked around. Goemon and Fujiko glanced at one another before following the other two, feathery weapons gripped like clubs. 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Fujiko turned around, quickly trying to come down the step ladder she was standing on, holding her index finger beneath her nose, waving her free hand frantically. “dust in-- dust in my nose--” 

Lupin flinched as an enormously loud sneeze tore itself from her frame, three more following in suit, leaving the poor cat burglar groaning and sniffling as she wiped at her nose with her sleeve. “God, I just snorted an entire dust bunny, I think,” she frowned, turning back to face her most dangerous rival, otherwise known as a bookcase. She and Lupin had just spent the last half hour pulling books from the shelves and wiping them down with disinfectant, running their hands over the covers as they took little breaks every five minutes to soak up some of the things the inspector read. 

As it turned out, he liked mystery novels and, unsurprisingly, romance. He had two copies of _Dracula_ stuffed side by side, one of them crumbling with a birthday note on the first page, the other pristine and freshly bought. There was a book about local flowers that looked dusty on the outside, but completely untouched on the inside. He had about a billion cookbooks, all well-loved and overused, several pages torn out, occasional sprigs of flowers pressed between thin, waxy pages, petals colorless and flaking. 

Fujiko climbed back up, resting her knee against the front as she pulled out the final chunk of books, awkwardly hauling them up and lowering them so that Lupin could take them from her hands. When they reached his palms, he grunted lightly as his arms were drawn heavily down by the sudden weight of the books, and he squatted lightly to place them on the ground. 

“Now, you work on dusting those while I get the shelves,” Fujiko instructed, reaching out with her hand behind her back, making a grabbing motion with her fingers. Lupin got the memo quickly and shoved the feather duster in her palm while he got right to work on the covers, sitting down with a light huff beside them and pulling the disinfectant wipes next to his lap. “can’t wait to finish this God-forsaken thing. I didn’t know it’d take us so long!” 

“That’s only because we kept stopping to read what Pops keeps in here,” Lupin remarked, gently using one of the wipes to run over the front of a paperback with a greying picture of a bowl of pho, titled _Vietnamese Cooking for Beginners._ Absently, the thief smiled to himself, taking a moment to soak in the cover while thoughts of Zenigata tending to a simple meal for one over a hot stove flooding his mind. It was just a flash of an image, really, nothing detailed, nothing that lingered long enough to be significant. That wasn’t what bothered Lupin, though. No, no, what bothered him about that thought was how it made him _feel._

“You payin’ attention down there?” Fujiko asked from her step ladder, brow furrowing, one hand planting itself firmly atop her hip. “You’ve been staring at that cookbook for God knows how long,” 

“Ah,” Lupin blinked, looking up at her with an owlish, absent expression. “was I?” 

“The way you were gawking at it I almost thought it had grown a pair of tits,” she rolled her eyes, mouth drawn into a straight, unamused line. “c’mon. You brought us here to work, and then you just waste your time reading Pops’ cookbook collection? You’re such a hypocrite,” 

“Hey!” Lupin frowned, quickly setting the freshly wiped book next to him, planning on forming a little, clean pile atop where it lay, just as he had with the other rows of books he had been tasked with cleaning. “You’ve been doing the same exact thing, Fujicakes. That’s why this whole bookshelf operation is takin’ us so long,” 

“Or, we just don’t want to scrub the grout of his bathroom tiles like Jigen and Goemon,” she remarked, finishing off the corner she was currently working on before reaching her hand back for a disinfectant wipe. 

“Or, we just don’t want to scrub the grout of his bathroom tiles like Jigen and Goemon, yes, you’ve got quite the point, there,” Lupin smiled, gladly offering her a fresh wipe as he cleaned a thick blanket of dust from a book of herbs and four-square gardens. He peeked inside, finding another note on the front cover. As a matter of fact, he found three-- one was to a woman named Rosaline Knox and it was dated at Valentine’s day of 1924, another to a person affectionately nicknamed “bunny” in 1961, and then, finally, there it was in thin, neat cursive, dating to three years ago in 1985 to Zenigata. 

Apparently, it had been a birthday gift given to him by a friend of his, the note talking about his green thumb, the one that Lupin never even knew he had. He hummed softly, putting the book back down, pretending that he didn’t see Fujiko and her arched, bushy eyebrow staring directly at him. 

“Something on your mind, Lupin?” She asked dully, hand pressed against the side of the inside of the bookcase as she cleaned the top shelf. 

“Only you, babe,” he winked at her, only to receive an eye-roll in response. He hummed lightly, stooping down to continue his task, though he didn’t move any faster than before. With lingering eyes, he continued to gaze at the covers of books he never thought Zenigata would be interested in.

It was strange how much you could learn about a man you thought you knew pretty much backward and forwards, but then again, Lupin only knew about the parts Zenigata _showed_ him. He knew the guy was dedicated as all hell, and not one to give up easily. Knew he liked ramen noodles and was a stickler for justice and rules, that he liked working for Interpol and, most importantly, knew that he liked to chase Lupin. Or, at least, that’s what someone had told the thief-- they were mostly rumors, but Lupin couldn’t help but find the whole idea somewhat amusing (as cruel as that may sound). 

But never in all twenty-odd years of their game did Lupin ever _once_ consider that he had a life outside of being a cop. That he liked to read sappy novels where the protagonists fell in love after ages and ages of constant, aching pining, that he tried to garden or that he loved to cook whenever he could, at least, judging by the books he seemed to use most often. He never knew that the inspector had actual, real interests other than chasing him and his friends. 

A sudden weight, guilt, maybe, dropped to the pit of Lupin’s gut, and it was so powerful it almost made him double over. There were several instances, ones that Lupin remembered _quite_ vividly, in fact, of the inspector clearly showing interest in the things that the thief liked. Birthdays where Lupin would find little parcels of Gitanes mysteriously in his coat pockets after he would be chased halfway down the block of some miscellaneous town, drunken nights where the thief rambled on and on and _on_ about the inner workings of his beloved Fiat and, and, with hazy eyes, Zenigata sat and he listened and he nodded, cheek smooshed up against the hand he was leaning on, the hint of a ghost of a smile just barely on his lips. Quiet moments between heists when Zenigata would let Lupin lead the conversation, mostly silent, mostly listening. Odd, strange situations, ones where they’d find themselves on the same side, sharing mostly everything as they worked together to defeat a similar enemy. They’d share cars (Zenigata let Lupin control the radio) and planes (Zenigata would give Lupin the window seat) and cold oranges (Zenigata would break them apart piece by piece, always eating one for himself then, absently, as though he didn’t have to think about it, he would push a slice into Lupin’s palm. Did he know that oranges were the thief’s favorite fruit?). 

All of these were mindless, insignificant gestures, ones that Lupin saw but didn’t recognize, not until now, not until he realized just how little he knew about the inspector. There was another feeling in his gut, this one lighter, a lot less heavy than the guilt. Stranger, though. Much, much stranger. He put down another book after wiping it clean and then found himself thinking about how badly he wanted to get to know Zenigata. 

The bookshelf, for the most part, was clean but not enough to really _notice._ Once again, the gang was going for subtlety, and as much as Lupin wanted to finish the job like a well-planned heist, he was satisfied with what he and Fujiko had done. Now, they had moved on to the kitchen while Goemon and Jigen took a quick break, resting their backs after mopping and scrubbing at both the kitchen and bathroom floors for what must have seemed like a millennium. To occupy themselves, they snooped through Zenigata’s record collection, Jigen flipping through and reading record names aloud as Goemon fiddled with the record player itself, attempting to get it to work properly. From the kitchen window, golden afternoon light was spilling in through the curtains, odd and bright against the snow, painting everything rosy and warm. The room felt as though it were underwater, and as Lupin cleaned the cabinets below the countertop, he could see the tiny, white flecks of dust swirling about in the sun’s beams.

“So, are you two planning on actually _helping_ us, or are you just gonna sit back on your asses and watch?” Fujiko snapped after Jigen read the third Louis Armstrong title in a row. She was currently standing up on the countertop, legs wobbling as she stabled herself by pressing her palms into the cabinets, attempting to get at the dust bunnies at the very top. 

“The latter, thanks,” Jigen replied simply, picking up a sleeve and pulling the record from it, examining it for a minute before putting it back. “besides, Fujiko, we didn’t see _you_ rushin’ in to help _us_ while we were bustin’ our asses scrubbin’ at grout. _Grout,_ for God’s sake. My knees are gonna be bruised for days,” 

“I’m sure you’re used to _that,”_ the cat burglar mumbled, and Jigen bristled. 

“What was that?” 

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Enjoy lazing about while Lupin and I do the hard work,” 

“Thanks. I will,” Jigen spat, though there was a smirk on his mouth and no _real_ heat behind anything that he said.

“Find anything interesting, Jig?” Lupin asked, popping up from behind the counter to look at Jigen, chin resting atop the wooden surface. 

“Don’t call me that,” 

“Sure thing, Jigen dear,” Lupin smiled at the glare thrown his way, ducking back behind the countertop to continue dusting off the cabinets there, crossing his legs as he sat down against the cool tile flooring. 

_“Anyways._ I think this qualifies as jazz. Don’t know the artist, but I mean, take a peek at the cover,” Jigen said dully, and Lupin pulling himself back up yet _again_ to glimpse at the photo on the record sleeve, which was somewhat limp in the gunman’s hand. It did, in fact, look quite jazzy, depicting a man in a white suit, leaning back as he blew into a saxophone, an attractive woman in a similarly white sundress dancing beside him, as, faded in the background, was an entire band. The whole image was somewhat faded and yellow, clearly old as bits of the record sleeve was peeling, the edges rounded off.

“I mean, only one way to find out,” Fujiko shrugged, pulling the scarf off of her head to push her hair back once more, fingers tugging through thick, orange curls as she attempted to get all of the strands out of her face. When she finally tied the scarf back on, there was little more than a small, lone spiral near the base of her ear peeking through the front, which she quickly stuffed behind the fabric. 

“Point taken,” Jigen replied, pulling the slick, black record from the sleeve, carelessly lining it up with the needle as he placed it atop the player, ignoring the dirty look that Goemon gave him for putting his hands and fingernails all over the record, probably giving it several new scratches as he fumbled with it from a sitting position. 

He finally managed to put the needle in the correct place, the room silent as the group of four listened to the quiet, staticky sounds, waiting for something to happen. There was a sort of gentle anticipation, a pause of breath as the hum of trumpets began to fade in, starting off a slow, gentle melody. Trombones and saxophones and a violin to top it off added to the sound, producing something of a quiet, lazy little ditty, perfect for the time of day as the sun continued to slip below the horizon. They would be leaving soon, Lupin knew, and he absently wondered whether or not Zenigata would notice their work. He _was_ a detective, after all-- perhaps the thief had been a little bit too careless. 

“No wonder the guy seems so sad all the time,” Jigen snorted as he stood up, reaching out for Goemon to get the samurai to dance with him. “all he listens to are love songs,”

“Pops doesn’t seem _sad_ all the time,” Lupin frowned, standing up, stretching as his back popped loudly, shifting his head from side to side to do the same with his neck. _“Ah,_ that feels good,” he murmured to himself, muscles stretching out from his previous position. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t _notice,_ Lupin,” Jigen spoke the question as a statement, turning to face the thief with a furrowed brow as the samurai slipped his hands into the gunman’s. As if it were second nature, Jigen pulled him up, letting Goemon come as close as he was comfortable with before placing one hand very softly on his waist, the other golding the samurai’s hand. Goemon, in turn, rested one hand on Jigen’s shoulder, and though he stood at least half a head taller than the gunman, they managed to make their position work. 

“No, of course, I haven’t noticed,” Lupin frowned, turning to finish cleaning the kitchen by tending to the dust on the countertop closest to the window. He glanced down at the spider top grills on the stove, noticing a few stains that could very easily be removed with some cleaning product and a cloth, but he figured that would be a little _too_ obvious. For now, dusting was good. 

Jigen didn’t respond, instead swaying with his partner as they crossed the floor in a dance that nobody had ever seen before-- mostly because it didn’t exist. There was no rhythm to their steps, no _one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three_ count to keep them in time with the music, no pattern for the impromptu spins and half-hearted dips that occurred occasionally. 

It was actually almost surprising to see Goemon behave in such a manner; Lupin knew that Jigen didn’t mind goofing around, often unexpectedly touchy when he was in the right mood, but the samurai was much more reserved. Very bashful, very quiet, very subtle in his affections. And yet there he was, looking comfortable as ever, letting Jigen lead him around Zenigata’s living room floor. Lupin was glad he felt comfortable enough with the others to be so openly fond of the gunman, rare as those moments were. 

He reached across the surface of the wooden area, getting at the edges between the wall and the countertop, running his finger along the little seam that connected them. Behind him, he heard Fujiko huff softly while she slid down from the countertop on wobbly legs, careful not to slip and fall to the floor. 

“Lupin, where’d you put the-- oh, nevermind, found it,” she said, though her voice sounded distant and muddled. Lupin barely processed the sound of a trash bag rustling as he concentrated on the task before him.

How long had Zenigata been living like this? Constantly on the move, never having enough time to really live in his own home? Lupin wouldn’t feel so bad if the state of his apartment was caused by him, but the thing was, it was caused by the exact opposite. The _lack_ of him. 

Did he come home every day and crash on the couch? Did he have time to make dinner for himself, or was it just instant ramen or takeout night after night? Did he ever actually get to use those cookbooks he seemed to love? 

There was a laugh-- Jigen’s, most likely-- as behind Lupin, Fujiko intercepted the dance while the previous song faded into silence and something with a quicker tempo kicked in. She said something about being the lead, and there was playful banter as the pair argued over who would get to lead who. Fujiko was taller, but Jigen was the guy, but Fujiko was the better dancer, but Jigen knew more moves, but Fujiko was… 

Lupin wondered absently if Zenigata knew how to dance. Didn’t he? Hadn’t Fujiko been undercover, and invited him to a little spin on the floor? He had been good, right? 

The thief paused as his hand swept across the grain of the countertop. He remembered that night, remembered watching from behind a large group of people, and he remembered his stomach flipping uncomfortably. He knew it was jealousy, but at the time, he thought it was directed at Pops as he swung Fujiko around as though she were weightless, her open-mouthed laughter mixing in with the music. 

Now, though… now he didn’t feel so sure. 

Behind him, the gunman and cat burglar were no longer arguing, instead shimmying to the ongoing beat of a fast-paced swing song. There were many grunts and yelps as one stepped on the other’s foot by accident, but for the most part, the room was filling slowly with laughter. Lupin felt bad for the downstairs neighbors, but only for a moment or two. 

Lupin continued down the counter, though he stopped at the refrigerator, pausing to take a step back and gaze up at Zenigata’s scrawled handwriting written across sticky notes or little scraps of paper pinned to the fridge by quirky magnets. They were mostly shopping lists-- _eggs, milk, butter, bread--_ but some were reminders. _Doctor’s appointment at 5 PM. Dentist: 3 PM. Dogsitting tomorrow, don’t forget to hide the allergy medicine._

Lupin, feeling a little foolish, reached out and poked his index finger to one of the notes, almost tracing along the handwriting as he stared at it, blinking slowly, thinking about Zenigata’s more domestic life. He wondered if he remembered to buy milk that day, or if his appointment with the doctor went okay, or if his teeth were alright, or whether or not he remembered to hide the allergy medicine from whoever’s dog he was babysitting. Did he _enjoy_ doing such mundane activities, or were they all too slow for him? Did he actually like to travel around as he chased Lupin, or did he want to remain at home? 

Fujiko laughed loudly, snorting as Jigen dipped her almost to the floor, damn near dropping her before he managed to swing her back up, both of them laughing with their eyes closed and noses wrinkled. The dimples on Fujijko’s cheeks were plain as day. 

Lupin turned away from the fridge, slowly balling the wipe he was using into a little, tiny, crinkled mess before tossing it into the trash bag, which he picked up and began to tie at the top, signifying the end of the day. 

“I think this about does it,” he said, shaking off the feelings from earlier, tying a knot in the plastic and then another just for extra safety. “I say that the next time we come here, we should try and start organizing things-- it won’t take as long,” 

“The _next time,_ Lupin?” Fujiko asked, letting Jigen’s hands slip from hers as the gunman went to turn off the record player, carefully pulling the record from its place and slipping it back into the sleeve. The room went oddly quiet now that the music was gone. “Did you forget about the heist? We need to make up for the time that we wasted here,” she frowned, though her voice wasn’t as accusatory as her words. It was a little softer, as though she was trying to go easy on Lupin for whatever reason. 

“Well-- well, I mean, in order for the heist to work, we need Pops, don’t we?” The thief sputtered, picking up the trash bag and hoisting it over his shoulders. 

“Not really,” Jigen replied, arching an eyebrow and putting the record back where he found it, careful to leave it exactly as it had been earlier to that Zenigata didn’t notice it had moved. “in fact, it’s probably for the best that he won’t be hangin’ around. It’d be a hell of a lot easier for us,” 

“We humored you, but now it’s time to get to work,” Fujiko said, frowning lightly. Goemon was silent. 

“C’mon, man, we’ve got shit to do. If we play our cards right, we could finish the heist lickety-split, and then I guess you can clean to your heart’s content for… whatever reason,” Jigen shrugged, padding back to the entryway to retrieve his coat. “we don’t have much planning left, and the heist in itself won’t be hard. You’ve seen the guy we’re after, haven’t you?” 

Lupin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” he frowned, biting at his lip, and watching the others follow Jigen’s lead to retrieve their things, shoes coming on, sleeves being unrolled, scarves untied from around heads, hair tumbling freely. He knew that the heist would be easy, knew that it wouldn’t require a lot of effort or much more planning, but… but that was just the _thing._ “you’re right,” he finally said, painting a smile onto his face, though his heart was sinking. “we’ve done enough, and now we should probably focus on getting some dough,”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Jigen grinned, pulling out a cigarette as he held the door handle, waiting for Lupin to shoulder into his jacket and pull his shoes back on. “we ready to go?” He asked as the thief tied the laces of his shoes. 

“I know _I_ am. My back hurts like all hell, I need a bath,” Fujiko yawned, stretching. 

“I didn’t ask you,” 

“You asked the collective ‘we,’ and I’m apart of that,”

“Goemon, Lupin, are you two and only you two ready?” Jigen asked, fighting back a smile. Fujiko scoffed and stole his cigarette before he was able to light it, which caused him to scowl at her. 

“You two fight like young children,” Goemon sighed as Lupin stood up, slinging the bag back over his shoulder. 

“Ouch, whose side are you one, samurai?” Jigen asked in a mock-pout. Goemon shrugged. 

“Mine,” 

“Wow, I guess I shoulda’ seen that one coming, huh?” 

There was the hum of a chuckle that rippled its way throughout the group as they shuffled out of the apartment, idle chatter taking over in a matter of seconds. Lupin brought up the rear, pausing for a moment to turn over his shoulder and glimpse around at the empty rooms. When he heard his name being called, he turned back around and exited, closing the door behind him with a soft _click._ He wouldn’t see the apartment or Zenigata for quite some time because he knew that they had to focus on their current heist, and something about that thought made him feel just a little queasy. 

Lupin blew against the hot liquid in his mug as he held it close to his body, fingers shivering beneath the glass, legs curled up against his chest. He was sitting out on the balcony of their hotel room, drinking chamomile tea (which he hated) to help make him tired after two full hours of tossing, turning, and generally staying awake. 

The four had driven back to their hotel, dumping the bag of loose, unneeded papers and several disinfectant wipes into a trash bin behind some restaurant they had never gone to. When they arrived back, they each took turns showering, exhaustion painting their faces as they all crashed one by one. It had been a long day, and they deserved a break. 

The thief, however, wasn’t able to sleep. Not even a little bit. He was tired, sure, but his brain was racing at a million miles per second, constantly filling with unwelcome thoughts that he had to _fight_ to push back. It was uncomfortable and it was exhausting and he just wanted to go to bed, for he knew he would have to be up early tomorrow. So there he was, sipping his chamomile, feeling childish and stupid and hopeless beyond reason, hoping that this remedy would actually work on him. 

He pressed closer to himself, the steam curling around his face, framing his cheeks and getting stuck in his eyes. It was around two in the morning, not _that_ late, but still not a good time to be awake if you had to be up and at ‘em in four hours. He wondered if Zeniata had gotten home safely, wondered if he had even gotten home at all. There were some nights, the thief knew, where he slept at the office he was in, curling up on one of those uncomfortable, sticky leather couches in the break rooms and falling asleep there (though it was practically just a nap). Lupin hoped that he would be home. He also hoped that he liked the fabric softened the thief had used on his sheets. 

Why was he so anxious to get Zenigata back on his case? Why did it matter that he was working on something else, that he was occupied with a different job, that his attention was focused in a direction other than Lupin’s? These were some of the many, many thoughts that had been plaguing the thief’s restless mind ever since he had found out about Zenigata and the Barnett case. 

It couldn’t _actually_ be jealousy, could it? Sure, Lupin liked the adrenaline he got with the chase, it was all great fun and it was just so easy to tease the poor inspector, but he had done plenty of jobs without Zenigata’s presence. That being said, those had occurred years and years ago when the two still hated one another and hadn’t happened since other than the occasional small-fry thief that the inspector could bag in less than a week. He really was good at his job. 

Lupin tried to reason with these strange, dizzying thoughts. He was probably just confused because Zenigata was _always_ assigned to him, and maybe a different policeman would throw him off his rhythm. Maybe he was irritated that the inspector didn’t see him as enough of a threat to ignore his current assignment and go after the thief, instead. Maybe he just missed the familiarity. Maybe he just missed Zenigata. 

“Lupin,” 

The voice was quiet and familiar, and the thief damn near jumped out of his seat, tea sloshing around in the mug and dangerously close to spilling as he whipped his head around, only to be greeted by the sleepy face of--

 _“Jigen”_ He hissed, frowning, though he relaxed back into his chair as the gunman stepped closer, bare feet against the ice-cold concrete. He was wearing a set of old pyjamas, which consisted of flannel pants that fit too tight around his hips and were too short for his ankles, and a sweater that had a little wiener dog on the front. It didn’t say anything, there was just a cartoon wiener dog. “You’re up late,” he mumbled, scooting over and letting Jigen squeeze into the space next to him when the gunman poked at his shoulder. There was just enough room on the chair to support them both. 

“Speak for yourself,” Jigen said simply, adjusting to get more comfortable, his shoulder pressing to Lupin’s as he relaxed into the back of the chair. Although a little peeved by his presence, Lupin was incredibly grateful for the extra warmth he added. “why are you awake?” 

“Why are _you?”_ Lupin retorted instantly, taking another sip of his tea. He paused, offering some to the gunman, who shook his head politely. 

“I noticed that you were gone so I went out to check on you. I wouldn’t have woken up, but Fujiko kicked me in her sleep,” he paused. “somethin’ on your mind, man?”

“No, not really,” Lupin lied, though he knew his friend would catch it. He stared out at the streetlamp below, snowflakes illuminated in the yellow light streaming from the bulb.

“That isn’t true,” Jigen responded almost immediately, and Lupin frowned. Did he really have to play psychiatrist _this_ late? Why couldn’t he wait ‘til morning? 

For a while, neither of them spoke, breath cloudy and white as it left their lips. The only sounds were the rush of cars whizzing past underneath and occasional honk several streets away. Lights flickered off from bars as they closed, the late-night partiers all huddled into the cars of designated drivers and taxies, leaning heavily against one another and slurring and tired. From a nearby apartment building, a dog barked twice, though it quieted down after that, and someone’s car alarm went off from many, many blocks away. 

Lupin almost let his eyes flutter closed, feeling a little bit heavy, suddenly calm as he attempted to soak in the sounds of the city. The presence of somebody he felt safe around, the feeling of the tea, the warmth of a friend, and the idle hum of the city-- maybe this was all he needed to banish all of those unwanted thoughts. 

“It’s Pops, isn’t it?” Jigen asked suddenly, interrupting the silence. So much for banishing unwanted thoughts. 

Lupin blinked, turning to face him, feeling his stomach drop. “What do you mean by that?” 

“You’re thinking about Zenigata. I know you are. You have been all day-- for several days, as a matter of fact,” the gunman replied simply, and both his expression and tone seemed to have softened. When Lupin didn’t reply, he continued. “you seem to think about him often, you know. I know that _you_ don’t notice it, but _I_ do. It’s written on your face,” 

Lupin swallowed hard. _“What’s_ written on my face? Don’t be silly,” He said quietly, playing innocent, though, with the way his voice grew thick, he knew that Jigen would see right through him. His stomach was beginning to hurt. 

“It isn’t anything bad, you know. I mean-- like, yeah, I guess it’s kinda weird since he’s your enemy and all,” Jigen continued as though Lupin hadn’t said anything at all. “though, I guess at this point, you aren’t really enemies. None of us are. I’d even go as far as to say that, when he’s not trying to haul us off to the can, Pops is a pretty good friend of ours. So, I guess it isn’t that strange, is it?” 

“What isn’t that strange? You’re talking nonsense, man,” Lupin chuckled, feeling his throat grow sticky. He was suddenly feeling much hotter than he had earlier-- the snow was not enough to cool him down. He wished Jigen would get up and leave. The chair they were sharing was beginning to get stuffy. 

“You _know_ what I’m talking about, Lupin,” Jigen frowned, turning to face the thief, who kept his head forward, eyes locked onto a night club across the street. “and there isn’t anything wrong with it, you know. It’s just the way it is,”

“Well, you’re jumping to conclusions, Jigen. Because I’m not. Maybe he is, but I’m not,” Lupin snapped, feeling his patience grow thinner and thinner. He wasn’t agitated, so to speak, but when an animal is cornered, it fights back. “I don’t care that Zenigata is like, in love with me or something. Everybody knows it. And it’s _stupid,_ not to mention sad-- I mean, come on! He’s practically a walking comedy act!”

“Lupin, those are just rumors, you know, they aren’t true,” Jigen said softly. Lupin’s jaw clenched. “c’mon, man. You’ve done this before. And if you keep denying it, you’ll only hurt yourself,” 

“Denying _what,_ Jigen,” Lupin snapped. His heart was racing. He wanted to go back inside, wanted to fall asleep, wanted to forget all of this, but he knew that the gunman wasn’t going to let him go. Jigen didn’t respond. “Jigen,” he said again, this time a little more urgently. 

Suddenly, the gunman stood, brushing against Lupin as he struggled out of the chair they were sharing, a shiver visibly passing through him. He wrapped his arms closer around himself, hiding his hands in the sleeves of his sweater, crossing his arms over his middle, huddling into himself to keep warm as he walked to the balcony’s glass door. 

“G’night, Lupin,” he murmured, smiling softly as he stretched out and slid it open, slipping inside before sliding the door shut again with a quiet, nearly inaudible _click._

Lupin sunk back into his seat, pulling his tea closer, trembling but not from the winter’s chill. His stomach churned. He couldn’t drink his tea anymore, knew that he wouldn’t be able to stomach it, knew that he’d probably throw it up in a matter of hours if he even tried to drink the rest of it. As he stared out into the night, eyes flickering over buzzing street lamps and quiet, snow-covered sidewalks, over the tops of trees from a nearby park and the lonely silhouettes of people returning home from wherever they had been at two AM, a thought popped into his mind, one that he was unable to rid himself of. 

Everything that Jigen had said hurt him in some way or another, made him queasy, made him feel as though he were going to spew his guts right then and there-- but why was it, that, out of everything the gunman had told him, the implication that Zenigata’s feelings for Lupin were simply rumors and lies made him feel the worst? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, beating myself over the head with a stick: stop! making! only! luzeni! content! there! are! other! characters!
> 
> also me, cracking my knuckles as i write my fifty millionth page on why the monkey man and himbo inspector should kiss:


	5. playing a losing game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhaustion is beginning to set in for Zenigata. Just how long can the inspector take his long, tedious workday schedule and what appears to be a rising temperature 'til he breaks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally every day this entire month has felt like wednesday. oh my god

Hours were melting into days were melting into weeks. Each morning, Zenigata awoke before the sun even rose, got ready as quickly as he could, thought about eating breakfast, forgot about eating breakfast, and then hopped into his car to hopefully beat traffic. Each morning, he would drive through heavy snow and force his way into the little tiny parking space that was barely even enough for the boxy little orange buggy that always parked next to him. He would walk to his office, hunch over an ocean of paperwork, write and sign and circle and highlight ‘til his fingers cramped, eat instant ramen for twenty-odd minutes, and then hop back to his paperwork. 

He would share  _ the most  _ riveting small-talk with a few colleagues (“Weather sure sucks today, huh?” “How’s that coffee treatin’ ya?” “Aren’t you cold? Do you need to borrow my coat? Yeah, sure, it’s no problem!” “Can you pick me something up from the vending machine?”), smoke more cigarettes than his lungs could handle, work ‘til his eyelids couldn’t stay peeled, and then clock out in the middle of the night. 

He’d drive home at an ungodly hour, stomach aching (was it because he forgot to eat? Was it from the excess of cigarettes? Was it because he was feeling under the weather lately?), mind barely able to stay focused on the slick, icy road ahead of him. He would glide back to his apartment on auto-pilot, head barely staying stable as he found his parking space and trudged through the snow (which, by this point, had gotten so heavy that no matter  _ how  _ short the distance was from car to lobby doors, his socks always ended up getting drenched through his boots). He would stumble inside, tired as ever, and begin the long, long journey up to his room via elevator ride, barely able to stay awake as he went floor by floor, until, finally, at long last,  _ ding,  _ he would arrive at his story. 

Shuffling out at a speed no faster than that of a salted slug, he would greet the night staff as he went who would pass him a look of sympathy, get to his door, struggle to unlock it, and then finally, at long last, he would be home. He would stumble inside, and he would kick his shoes off, and he would yawn and stretch and groan and murmur and he would not notice his clean kitchen tile or freshly dusted coffee table or scrubbed ashtrays that had previously been so caked in cigarette debris that their original designs couldn’t be seen. 

He wouldn’t bother showering or actually getting ready for bed-- he’d deal with all of that in the morning. He would go straight to brushing his teeth, and then, feeling as though he weighed ten million pounds heavier, he would slump off to bed, entire body aching and muscles taut and head swimming and  _ oh _ my _ God  _ the bed, no matter how shitty and springy it was, would feel like literal heaven. Cloud fucking nine.

But, of course, the very moment his sleepy head crashed on his pillow, his mind, which seemed to loathe him, would race. 

It would start off simple, small, benign-- always about his current case, always about new clues he might not have picked up on earlier or perhaps how long he would spend at the office the next day. And then, of course, because his brain was wretched and wanted to see his demise, it would float  _ very  _ subtly towards the topic of finishing his case. Getting back to his old work. Getting back to Lupin and his gang. Getting back to Lupin. 

To Lupin.

Each time the thief crossed his train of thought, it was as though his entire body was being jumpstarted, an electric shock being sent right through his heart and across every muscle, nerve, tendon. His breath would hitch, and he would feel  _ sick,  _ like actually, physically  _ sick,  _ as though he was going to empty his guts right off of the edge of the mattress. 

He hated it. He was tired, working himself right down through to the bone, constantly weary and utterly exhausted each and every time he would stumble back home to his empty, cold apartment. There was already enough stress weighing down on his shoulders, did he  _ really  _ need more? Did he really need to be plagued with thoughts of the one person he was supposed to hate more than anybody else in the entire world every time he was alone? 

The poor inspector was caught between a rock and a hard place, that was for certain. Every day was more draining than the next, and every night was twenty times worse. Whereas, during his time at the office he was able to distract himself with the neverending load of paperwork and confusing case files that seemed to have nothing to do with one another, the remaining parts of his day left him alone. Completely, utterly alone. Nothing and nobody there to buffer the thoughts that had since been creeping slowly into his hazy mind, hooking clawed fingers into the inner corners of his skull. A dull whisper in the night, one that turned into moments where Zenigata’s heart would seize right in his chest. 

He was disgusted with himself, for the most part. He wasn’t…  _ used  _ to feeling this way. Wasn’t used to his mind wandering to another man-- to  _ Lupin,  _ of all people-- thinking about all of the ways he was beautiful. From the slender curve of his waist to the thin, faint smile lines that were sure to deepen, to the precise, delicate way his delicate fingers fluttered with such clever, pristine grace. Zenigata had been in several situations in which he was able to see more skin than the thief’s well-tailored suit offered, and he hated himself right down to the marrow of his bones whenever his memory caught onto a specific heist, a specific moment, a specific night. 

Never anything lewd, never anything excessively inappropriate or uncomfortable or even vaguely driven. The two had seen each other in practically nothing but their birthday suits before, and it was nothing to get so flustered about. 

And yet, lying in bed at God knows what time, when the image of the thief’s sun-kissed skin, so soft and yet so tense with stress, Zenigata couldn’t help the warmth that rushed to his cheeks. The quickening pace of his heart. The burst of butterflies in his gut.

There were scars that lined every inch of Lupin’s body, some white and thin and fading, some deeper, etched into his skin forever like a grim reminder of who he was. There was one in particular-- a thick, long keloid right at his hip that stretched  _ aaaallll  _ the way to the small of his back, the inspector remembered, and he had found it as Lupin shimmied into a different costume during one of their rare nights of truce. 

“Careful, Lupin, you need to bandage that!” Zenigata had said in a rush of panic, fear driving his movements as he stumbled closer to the thief, who sat casually on the bed, spirit gum and white and blue striped boxers holding him together. Lupin peered curiously at his concerned expression, but ultimately, had said nothing as Zenigata crouched before him, said nothing as he reached out on pure, dumb instinct alone, said nothing as the inspector’s large, calloused fingers tenderly pressed at the irritated skin around the bright, red mark. 

Finally, when it was too late, when Zenigata was already touching him, the thief spoke. 

“That’s old, Pops,” Lupin’s voice had been uncharacteristically soft, and Zenigata was absolutely powerless as the thief’s deft hands took the digits the inspector had pressed into the warmth of his body. Slowly, he tugged Zenigata’s index finger, leading it as it dragged across the scar. 

It was smooth, rounded over, and Zenigata could see paper-thin strands of deep red amidst the lighter pink. It rose off of Lupin’s flesh like braille, and in that quiet, heavy moment, the inspector wondered just exactly what it was saying as his breath hit the thief’s legs and goosebumps erupted in his shins and up his thighs (Zenigata, with a strange sort of satisfaction, saw the way the thief’s skin raised, saw how his hair bristled and stood up on end, saw the subtle shiver along his thin, thin waist). 

It was an odd moment, one that was far too frighteningly intimate, and one that the inspector thought of on a nearly nightly basis. 

What he did-- what he _ was-- _ it was all so selfish, really. How he would lay awake, knowing he would have to be up and working again in a few hours, and yet, he couldn’t do anything but think about Lupin. Long for him, even. Ache for the touch of his thin, crafty fingers, for the brush of his soft lips, for the tickle of his hot breath. Ache for his eyes and how they glinted impishly with every new idea that passed through his brilliantly stupid mind, for the scent of his Gitanes, for the chatter of his teeth in the cold and the crinkles along the bridge of his nose when he laughed and… and more. That was it, really. It was always more. Zenigata wanted  _ more.  _

He would always try to convince himself that it was  _ normal  _ to think about Lupin so often, especially because most of his life revolved around the thief and his movements. It was quite literally his job to understand his every twitch, smile, breath and step (so that he could, of course, capture him and lock him up).  _ This is normal,  _ he would try to tell himself.  _ This is normal.  _

But years passed. One, then two, then five. And Zenigata was so disgustingly head-over-heels in  _ love  _ with the thief-- with  _ his  _ thief-- that every interaction seemed like an opportunity to soak in his warmth, his presence, his atmosphere. And, as time went on, those opportunities grew more common, became frequent, abundant, even, for Lupin and Zenigata were becoming…  _ friends?  _

Something a little less than friends? 

Something a little more than enemies?

_ Something.  _

They became  _ something.  _ And that was more than Zenigata could have ever asked for. 

He would get phone calls on his birthday, and, of course, he would slip Lupin little surprises on his. They would bump into one another at sleazy bars in shitty towns and share quick, sour-tasting shots while talking about nothing at all. Lupin would always walk Zenigata home after, their shoulders knocking together, knuckles brushing, footsteps falling in and out of sync. 

They grew more comfortable with one another as time went on. In fact, if you squinted, they almost seemed to care. 

There had been several nights where Lupin would find Zenigata piss-drunk and slumped over the countertop of a small bar with flashing neon lights and people who couldn’t tell between wrong and right anymore. The inspector would absolutely resent him as he strode in, chest puffed, smirk clinging to his lips like he had the perfect  _ gotcha!  _ moment. 

And then, without a word, without hesitation, he would pay for the inspector’s tab, give the bartender a nice little tip, and then drag the man out, Zenigata’s arm slung over Lupin’s shoulders. Together, they would shuffle through dark, greasy parking lots, and then, quite unceremoniously, the thief would dump poor, drunk Zenigata in the back of his Fiat and slide in the front seat and then get going. 

Sometimes, on especially hard nights after especially lonely days, when Zenigata was barely even comprehensible he slurred so heavily, there would be detours. Long ones, ones that lasted deep into the night and well into the morning, ones where, when their gazes met through the rearview mirror, Zenigata got a taste of that  _ more  _ that he had longed oh so voraciously for. 

Lupin would switch the radio to something quiet (“I thought of you the first time I heard this, so you’d better like it, Pops!”) and direct him to his little rat’s nest of blankets (“Open that little compartment to your left there-- no, ah, ah, no, not there-- wait-- yes, yes, there! Got it. Now, do me a favor and snuggle up, alright?”) and offer up the remains of a lukewarm water bottle from the front seat (though, sometimes, it was coffee or orange juice or iced tea. It all depended on what the thief had been drinking that day). 

He would drive aimlessly for a long time, careful and slow and more gently than Zenigata had ever seen him drive before as he lay in the back seat with no seatbelt, blankets bunched around his queasy body, shoes kicked off. There would be no conversation, only the hum of the engine and the soft whir of cars passing and whatever quiet, indistinguishable tune Lupin would put on in the background.

Before he knew it, he would be sleeping. Right there in the back of the Fiat, his brain muddled and hazy. And then, he would wake up in bed, devoid of his work clothes and instead clad in whatever random pyjamas Lupin could find in his bag, and there would be breakfast in the microwave of whatever shit hotel he was staying at, and a small note explaining what happened, where he was, not to go to work that day, drink some water, Pops, get plenty of rest, please be more careful next time, though, I must admit, driving you around was nicer than I thought it would be! XOXO, Lupin the Third. 

(He would always keep all of those notes. They were hidden away in a small, vintage cigarette box sitting on the top shelf of the little bookcase in his room.)

But, of course, all good things come to an end, and Zenigata had to cut whatever friendship he and the thief had going on. He couldn’t be seen with him unless he was chasing him, couldn’t talk to him unless he was yelling, couldn’t drink with him unless it was a rouse to get him behind bars. Because someone had let slip a little rumor. Was it a colleague? Someone completely different? He had no way of knowing.

Either way, the word that Inspector Koichi Zenigata had fallen for master thief Arsène Lupin III had gotten out, and when it reached his ears, the realization that it hit just a little too close to home struck him hard and fast, and, well, how was he supposed to mentally prepare himself for  _ that?  _

So, yes. Maybe that rumor had truth to it. Maybe he did like Lupin, hell, maybe he even loved him. And maybe he hated himself for it. Maybe everything he did, everything he was passionate about, everything he cared for-- it all linked back to that smarmy, monkey-faced little thief. And maybe nothing would ever happen and he would die just as he lived: in complete, pure, sickening solitude. And maybe he was okay with that. 

Because maybe, just maybe, that’s how things were supposed to be. 

But who was he to think of such horribly existential things? Who was he to come to terms with his sexuality or his obviously one-sided attraction for the man he should hate more than anybody else in the world? He was just a tired old cop, one that was definitely overworking himself, one that could barely tell day from night anymore, and one that was slowly but surely developing quite a nasty fever. 

“You heard about that new Lupin heist, didn’t you?” 

“Did you hear what that Lupin guy did?” 

“Lupin is finally active again, didn’t you know?” 

“I wonder how Zenigata is taking this…” 

These were the hushed murmurs that the inspector had to endure all day long. He went into work, exhausted from the sleepless night before, sat at his cramped desk, wrote until his hands hurt and then wrote some more, and listened to the talk that hummed all throughout the office. His coworkers were hungry flies buzzing around his rotting corpse, and boy were they bad at hiding it. 

Apparently, within the several weeks that had passed since Zenigata last saw Lupin, the little rascal had robbed one of the richest people in the area, swiping a safe full of lavish, expensive jewels worth millions upon millions of yen. He had gone in through a window on the upper floor disguised as a guard, and then simply…  _ took.  _ It was an easy heist, even with the gaudy calling card that Lupin had sent (though, this time around, Zenigata noticed that he had a little less…  _ zeal,  _ than usual) prior to his theft. 

Of course, nobody in the enormous mansion had known what to do about Lupin’s warning since it was so bold and theatrical. So, naturally, they ignored it. Had the inspector been on the case, there would have been both guards and policemen posted at every single window, door, and fireplace… but no. No, some rookie detective was on the job, starry-eyed and sweet-toothed, truly nothing but a kid. And he got to the scene far, far too late. And Lupin was long gone.

And, of course, Zenigata couldn’t do jack shit. 

He just had to sit in his swivel chair and jot down any new evidence that he could find on the Barnett case. It was getting a little more difficult to keep track of them, as they hadn’t done anything in a few weeks, so he was simply left high and dry, staring over at the same articles and information, not really getting  _ anything  _ done. He wanted to call it quits, wanted to tell the commissioner that if the Barnett couple wasn’t locked up within a week, he would go after Lupin and there was nothing anybody could do about it, end of discussion.

Of course, though, he didn’t have that kind of power. So he was just forced to sit at his desk and do what he hated more than anything else in the world: wait. 

“Hi. Honeybun,” there was a light tapping on Zenigata’s taut shoulders, which cause him to jolt in his seat. Thankfully, his hands were devoid of any writing utensils, so no stray marks were made on his papers. 

He turned, slightly confused by the sudden nickname, only to hear the crinkle of a thin, plastic wrapper open, and the aroma of sticky-sweetness attacking his nose, which he wrinkled slightly. As it turns out, what he had heard earlier was not a nickname, much to his great relief, but simply the name of the makeshift dinner Zenigata’s co-worker had once again brought for him.

“Hi, Ms. Takeda,” he greeted sleepily, smiling up at the woman who leaned against his desk, pulling off a piece of dough and popping it into her mouth. There was lipstick smeared across her cheek, and her shimmery gloss had gone matte and was mostly stuck to her Cupid’s bow. The tight, professional bun she had come in with that morning was hanging, lazy and loose, against the nape of her neck, and strands of thin black hair fell over her face. Her baby hairs were no longer smoothed down, instead sticking up every which way, and the once soft, cleanliness of her hands was now dry from the cold and sticky with glaze and smeared with graphite from her pencil. Clearly, her day had been long, and the inspector sympathized deeply with her as she turned, holding up her index finger to say “wait a moment” while a yawn tore itself from her mouth. 

“I bought this for you, but I just wanted to have a bite,” she spoke, grinning as she held the rest of the treat out to him. 

“You really didn’t have to,” he replied, though he knew that he should probably just shut up and take it. He still had a lot of work to do, and as much as he enjoyed idle chit-chat, he simply didn’t have the time to revel in her pleasant conversation. 

“Eh. It’s the least I can do-- I figured you were having a fairly crappy day,” she shrugged, gently passing over the saccharine mess of gluten and frosting to the inspector, who was beginning to think that his diet of carbs from the vending machine was most definitely the reason he had been getting a little softer. 

“Why’s that?” He asked, awkwardly setting the honeybun down away from the paper he was currently hunched over. 

“Oh, well. I’m sure you’ve heard the others talking about Lupin,” 

“Ah,” his stomach flopped, and suddenly, he didn’t feel so hungry anymore despite the fact that he… hadn’t eaten that day. “yes, I have,” 

She flinched. “Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it,”

“You’re fine, don’t worry about it,” 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” Ms. Takeda’s smile was sheepish, apologetic. Zenigata wished that it wasn’t. He hated the pity that his co-workers oh so clearly felt for him. “You goin’ home anytime soon?” She asked, scooting over a few of his papers, knocking over a long-emptied styrofoam cup. Zenigata watched with disdain as it rolled off of his desk and onto the floor, trying not to be annoyed when she hopped up to sit lightly on his desk, her black pumps hanging off of the ends of her toes as she began to lazily swing her legs to and fro. 

He scoffed. “Maybe. I can never tell with this stuff. It all depends on what the commissioner wants from me,” 

“Mmmm. Yeah, guess so. Seems like you’ve done enough, though, if I’m being honest,” 

“It  _ feels  _ like I’ve done enough, that’s for damned sure,” he deadpanned, sighing and leaning back in his chair. 

If Ms. Takeda’s appearance had been disheveled, then he must’ve looked like he’d clawed his way out of the grave. His skin had lost a little too much color, cheeks less flush than usual, and the circles beneath his drooping eyes were so dark they almost looked like bruises. His hair was messy and sticking out every which way, and he swore to God there were more grey hairs streaking the thick, dark strands than there were on Monday. His hands were shaky from writing, shallow dents permanently pressed into the pads of his fingertips, and every few moments his head would throb so violently he almost felt like he was going to pass out. 

“I just have this stack of papers left, and then I can head out for the night,” he lamented, leaning forward and pressing the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. 

“Stack, huh?” The woman smiled, reaching out a hand and shoving his shoulder playfully. “Geez, really seems like a breeze, eh?” Her tone was gentle, sarcastic. She was tired. He was tired. They were tired. This was the most they could do for one another. 

Outside, the moon crawled higher and higher into the sky, white flakes of snow drifting against the dull glow of the city, further contributing to the blanket that covered what seemed like all of little Miyoshi, Japan. 

“You want me to stay behind? I’ll help,” she offered, though she spoke quietly, as though she didn’t want to offend the inspector with her aid. Slowly, Zenigata looked up at her, gaze flicking across her exhausted expression. 

There was a pause as he considered this. He certainly  _ could  _ do with an extra set of hands-- his were beginning to get shakier and shakier, and for the past several days, his mind had been in such a thick, hazy fog that he constantly found himself having to read and re-read the same three sentences over and over and over again. Her help would definitely be appreciated and, as he stared down at the stray papers whose corners were curling upward due to the humidity in the room, he realized that he probably  _ needed  _ her assistance more than he wanted it. 

“No way,” he chuckled, tossing her the most genuine grin he could muster. “you go on home. You work far too late anyway,”

“You’re one to talk,” 

“Don’t turn this around. Now go home, you’re sitting on the paper I was writing on,” Zenigata leaned back over his work, propping his head up with one hand as, frantically, Ms. Takeda hopped off of the top of his desk, apologizing sheepishly and rearranging some of the loose sheets she had rumpled. Truth be told, she hadn’t been sitting on anything important-- Zenigata just didn’t want to be seen anymore. Didn’t want to talk anymore. A strange, sinking feeling right in the pit of his gut had suddenly washed over him, and the thought of being perceived made him want to be sick. 

“Sorry about that,” she chuckled nervously, clearing her throat and rapping her thin knuckles lightly against the top of his desk a few times for good measure. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” She smiled, and he returned the gesture.

“Sure will. Drive safe, the ice on the road is getting a little harder to avoid,”

“I’ll bet. You go home soon, alright? Forgive me for saying this, but you look a bit…” Ms. Takeda’s voice trailed off, and she gestured ever so vaguely with her hands, though the inspector got the message loud and clear. He snorted. 

“Tell me about it,” he sighed, reaching across his desk to pick up the honeybun she had left him. “you sure you don’t want this? I’m not hungry,” 

“Bullshit. I haven’t seen you eat all day,” she winked, turning to begin her journey to the little white Toyota, which to be honest, looked about five miles away from falling apart. “goodnight, Inspector!” She smiled, not turning around as she held up a languid hand to toss him a halfhearted wave, and though he knew she couldn’t see him, he waved right back. 

It was nice having friends in the workplace, he thought absently, directing his attention back to the files pulled from the Barnett couple’s case. They were a few years old, and some poor sweet temp had pulled them to hopefully help Zenigata find a pattern in the pair’s behavior. He had actually been working with this particular temp all day long in the records room, trying to find something,  _ anything  _ to get him just a smidge closer to solving this nightmare of a case. 

The two had sorted through old, dusty files, looking over previous crimes which mostly consisted of petty theft, some accounts of assault but never anything serious enough to register them as dangerous people. As a matter of fact, Gertrude and Phillip Barnett were not an extraordinarily significant pair of thieves (or at least they hadn’t been when they didn’t keep a blowtorch in their back pockets). They were clumsy, sloppy, and maybe Zenigata was just used to working with Lupin and his beautifully intricate and well-planned heists, but truly, these were some of the most ill-executed crimes he had ever witnessed. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were damn near  _ impossible  _ to find, clearly knowing exactly how to live under the radar, they would have been an easy chase. 

Of course, though, it was far too hard to sniff them out, and they were constantly besting any sort of law enforcement that showed up at any of their alleged doorstops, and so that was that, and Zenigata had to hold off on chasing a much  _ larger  _ threat to play cops and robbers with some petty crooks.

The inspector took a deep breath, running the heavy palm of his hand down his face with a low, exasperated groan. He wanted things to return to normal, wanted to stop cramming over paperwork all day, and, let’s be honest, all night. Wanted to go home to his apartment at a reasonable hour so that maybe, just maybe, he could tidy the place up and pretend that he lived there for an evening or two before he hit the road again, hot on Lupin’s heels, always two steps behind and one step below. 

Truth be told, he didn’t mind when Lupin bested him during their little game. Didn’t mind when he was left with an empty pair of handcuffs, didn’t mind when he returned to a jail cell only to find it devoid of life save for a cockroach or two, didn’t mind when he realized that, yet again, he had been tricked. So long as it kept the game going, so long as each time he fell he could scramble back up and go after Lupin-- well, he didn’t care how often he lost. He just cared about… he just cared about Lupin. 

Picking up the honeybun on his desk, he took a quick, cautious look around to make sure nobody else was around before he tossed the treat into the trashcan sitting just beneath his desk. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t grateful for the act, in fact, he was beyond flattered that she had even thought about him in the first place. However, he felt as though if he ate anything at all, it would end up coming right back up within the hour, and he just wasn’t emotionally prepared to deal with the mental toll vomit took on him (for it always did). Right now, he just needed to focus on his work, which he was determined to concentrate on despite his mind constantly urging him to fall into other places, softer places, sweeter places.

He squared his shoulders and hunched purposefully over his desk, huffing with determination as pencil met paper and the graphite scribbled messily into the margins of a document he had been taking notes on, circling keywords that may provide some sort of hint that would help with the search. If he could just get through these last few hours, if he could just  _ push  _ his way to the end, he would be able to go home. He would be able to sleep. 

The mere thought of falling into a dream state for what was bound to be a measly three and a half hours kept Zenigata working with a burning passion all the way through his very last paper. 

The road was slick, and Zenigata’s hands were dangerously loose on the wheel, and his eyelids were devastatingly heavy as he tried so terribly hard to concentrate on staying in his lane. He had only just pulled out of the parking lot, the clock boasting two in the morning. With a twinge of embarrassment, he recalled times where he had stayed much, much later, sometimes pushing himself past the sunrise and on into the next day and  _ still _ having enough energy to finish his task. 

However, right at this moment, it seemed as though every bone in his body was weighing him down, pushing him against the seat of his car, and making his head heavy enough to slump down onto his shoulders every few moments. There wasn’t a damn thought in his brain, the entire inside of his skull seemingly replaced with molasses so thick that he was practically asleep already. 

It was an odd feeling, really; not quite a headache, but not quite mere sleepiness, either. This was much, much heavier than both, and he realized all too late that perhaps he shouldn’t be driving when he felt as though his head was swimming. 

However, he wasn’t about to turn around and go back to the office when his building was  _ so  _ damned close. There was a gas station up ahead that marked the halfway point-- if he had been walking, it would’ve been the fifteen-minute mark-- so as long as he could make it there, it meant he was almost home. 

That thought alone was enough to motivate him to keep his eyes open, to grip harder on the steering wheel, to try and do whatever the hell he could to just  _ stay awake.  _

Zenigata sucked in a breath of air through his teeth, feeling the way his stomach lurched for what must have been the millionth time that day and promptly ignoring it. He was sure it was nothing more than his hunger slowly creeping upon him, the cigarettes he had smoked like oxygen not quite cutting it for his body. He pressed his foot to the gas just a little harder, sure that if he made it home within the next ten minutes, he’d be able to eat something nice and quick before passing right out on his bed. Good God, he was tired. 

The gas station was only a few feet ahead, one other car parked in its parking lot. It looked vaguely familiar, but to be frank, Zenigata couldn’t care less whether or not he recognized it. Exhaustion had long since settled in the very depths of his body, the fog in his head slowly ebbing into something like dizziness, something more like TV static. His stomach lurched again, and anxiety flared up within him. 

He wasn’t…? Surely he couldn’t. He hadn’t even  _ eaten  _ anything today, what even  _ was  _ there to get rid of? 

He shook the feeling, speeding up just a little more, knowing full well he was probably going above the limit, but he couldn’t care less right now. There was a stoplight up ahead, and if he didn’t hurry, it was going to blink from yellow to red in an instant, because that was  _ just _ his luck. He grit his teeth, promptly ignoring yet another heave from his stomach, though this one resulted in a sting in the very base of his throat. 

There was no fucking way. 

“C’mon, Koichi, you’ve got this. Just a few more blocks, then you’re home free,” he murmured urgently, willing his body to hang on just a little longer, glancing momentarily at his knuckles which were paling considerably. He wasn’t even gripping the steering wheel that hard, he was simply losing color and losing color fast. He could feel a chill set in along the base of his jaw, creeping to either side of his head, erecting uncomfortable, feverish goosebumps from his coat-clad arms. 

Without another thought, he swerved his car abruptly, the tires squealing in protest as he was sure he had accidentally left a skid mark on the empty road, but at the moment, he couldn’t really concentrate on that. He was far too focused on making it to a parking space as the stinging in the back of his throat turned into uncomfortable hotness, the feeling of bile creeping up his esophagus sickeningly present. 

He parked like a complete jerk, but hey, there was only one other person there and he was sure they didn’t mind. Besides, he’d be in and out so long as he hurried, so he quickly tore his seatbelt off and clicked his door unlocked, shoving it forcefully open with his foot which he then used to tumble out of the driver’s side. 

He wasn’t entirely sure if he managed to close his car door completely as he stumbled forward, barrelling towards the uncomfortable fluorescent lights as they hummed lazily inside of the stuffy looking convenience store, ignoring the figure staring at him with wide eyes from the gas pumps as they filled their car. 

Zenigata burst inside, effectively startling the poor college-aged boy. He flinched noticeably, drawing his fingers back from the countertop where they had been tapping on a crossword puzzle he had likely pulled from the stack next to the cash register, mouth opening as though he was going to say something. 

“Good evening,” Zenigata managed to choke out, though he clapped a hand quickly over his mouth the very moment the words left his parched lips. Awkwardly, he nodded to the poor kid before rushing past the counter, shoes sticking slightly to the tacky tile flooring, grimy from years worth of spilled drinks and melted candy that nobody had bothered to pick up. 

Racing past the nicotine-stained walls (which used to be a bright white), he skidded to a halt in front of the men’s bathroom, shoving it open with his shoulder, just barely holding back a gag that made him have to puff his cheeks out to keep from spilling whatever the hell he was about to throw up out of his stale mouth. He slammed the door shut behind him with his foot, not bothering to lock it and instead practically diving for the toilet which, thank God, already had an open lid. 

He fell to his knees instantly, bone knocking against the tile-- a bruise was probably already forming-- and lurched over the bowl, fingers gripping tight to porcelain while, with an undignified retch, he emptied his guts of the nothing that was residing within his stomach. 

It stung, mostly bile and stomach acid, and tears clung to the corners of his eyes as he dizzily heaved and coughed and spat. His breath came out ragged, and then, once more, his shoulders squared and another wave of nausea passed through him, the toes of his shoes digging into the ground, muscles tensing violently, throat sore and nose running-- or perhaps, it was just bile that had made its slimy way through to his nostrils. 

A small droplet of red plummeted into the murky basin, and he stared at it, completely unamused, exhaustion crossing his features. 

So, he was wrong both times. It was neither snot nor vomit. It was blood. Hooray. 

He remained hunched over the toilet, anxiety creeping into the empty space where his insides used to be, not wanting to have to clean throw up out of his car later if he were to get another sudden attack. Truly, it had been completely and utterly uncalled for, unexpected in every way, and he tried to rack his brain to think of  _ why  _ he would suddenly get sick like this. 

Was it something that he ate the other day? Was it because he  _ wasn’t  _ eating? Had he simply smoked too much? 

Gingerly, the inspector placed a finger just below his nose and drew it back. Sure enough, the pad was slick with hot, red blood, which neither concerned nor surprised him. When the weather got cold and the air got dry, it was much easier to get nosebleeds. It was simply unfortunate that he had gotten one  _ now,  _ of all times. 

No longer did he feel the urge to get rid of every inch of his insides, so, shakily, he pushed himself up. His vision blurred over, though it didn’t last long, just a few hazy, dizzy moments that made him stumble and clumsily lean against the tank to try and right himself lest he fall onto the bathroom tile or, even worse, into his own vomit. Shivering at the thought, he flushed, mouth tasting sour and rank, entire body frozen with bouts of chills and pinprick-like feelings that covered every inch of his legs and arms. 

He shuffled toward the sink, actively avoiding his reflection, knowing that if he were to take a glimpse into his sunken eyes and dull, colorless face, he would get sick all over again but for reasons completely unrelated to whatever the hell had washed over him. 

Zenigata pulled up his sleeves, running cold water over his hands, which shook so violently he found it difficult to pump soap onto them from the dispenser, slipping three or four times before actually managing to get his palms slicked up and clean (though, even after he rinsed the suds away from his skin, he washed them two more times). 

Next, he hunched himself over the basin, awkwardly having to spread his legs and do somewhat of a shimmy to tilt his head and let water pour into his open mouth. It tasted like metal and sulfur, lakewater, almost, but he managed to swish it around in his mouth which, admittedly, tasted twenty times worse. Finally, to really complete the ritual of increasing discomfort, he splashed some water on the space below his nose, wiping it off with a paper towel and hoping that it had stopped bleeding. It hadn’t, and so he held the paper towel to his nostril, despising how stupid he looked right about now.

With tired eyes, he glanced toward the unlocked door, a grimace slowly sliding onto his face. Now that the whole puke-in-a-convenience-store deal was all said and done, he had to face the ultimate humiliation of walking back out and apologizing for throwing up. 

Tugging lightly at the button-down he had been wearing, feeling a little claustrophobic beneath his regular trenchcoat, he pushed the door open with an oil-depraved creak, praying that he didn’t look  _ too  _ similar to a corpse as he felt the blinding light of the fluorescent lamps buzz at him from the ceiling. 

The smell of hot-dogs rolling on the little heaters and the sub-par coffee rumbling in the machine was enough to make Zenigata want to throw up  _ again,  _ but there wasn’t even bile in his system now, and he hoped that would be enough to deter his body from getting sick once more. 

He shoved his trembling free hand in his pocket, awkwardly turning to face the poor, shaken boy behind the counter, who looked a little queasy himself. He hoped he hadn’t heard him retch. 

“Do... you want me to call someone, sir?” He asked after a moment of painfully awkward silence, their eyes locking in the most uncomfortable staring contest Zenigata had ever had the misfortune of undergoing. 

“No, thank you,” he replied stiffly, an odd formality wavering between them. 

“Are you… are you  _ alright?”  _

“Um. Yes. Sorry,” 

“Right. Okay. Do you-- do you uh, do you want to buy anything?” 

“Not at all,”

“I figured.” He bit his lip, turning away for a moment, and Zenigata almost left. However, he halted just as he was just about to move when the boy looked back at him, a weary expression on his face. “Did you get puke on the floor?” He asked rather bluntly. In fact, it was almost blunt enough to make Zenigata laugh. Almost.

“No, don’t worry,” he replied, and he visibly relaxed. The poor thing probably would have had to clean it himself or call someone in, seeing as it seemed as though nobody else was working the shift with him. 

“Thanks,” 

“It’s nothing. Have a good night,” 

“Yeah. Drive safe,” 

And Zenigata almost tossed him a quick “you, too” but then realized how stupid that would sound considering the fact that he wouldn’t be going anywhere for quite a while. So, he just nodded and smiled sheepishly in his general direction, though he didn’t return the gesture, instead going back to focusing on his crossword puzzle.

When he left the convenience store, the freezing cold air assaulted him and he shivered, feeling the chill seep right through his coat and shirt and all the way down to the depths of his skin. His breath came out in a white cloud in front of him and with the neon lighting of the gas station’s sign (the one that had the misfortune of having a few letters go dark so that it read “O EN 2 -HO RS!”), he could see it that much clearer.

As the inspector began to walk back to his car, making sure to keep one hand firmly on the paper towel he was holding to his nose, he considered sleeping on his bathroom floor, just in case. He knew he wasn’t sick-- he  _ couldn’t  _ be, didn’t have the  _ time  _ to be-- but still.  _ Just in case.  _ He didn’t want to have to wake up early tomorrow or stay up all night to clean up even more stomach acid from his carpet or blankets. 

Perhaps he would sleep in to really shake off whatever had befallen him; he could call the commissioner early in the morning and explain to him that he wasn’t sick, simply taking precaution and making sure that he wasn’t in a position like that ever again, for truly, it was a terrible one to be in. His boss was strict and hard-headed, but surely, even  _ he  _ would understand somebody coming in a little late due to something like this, right? Even  _ he  _ couldn’t be  _ that  _ apathetic, right? There was simply no way that he could just completely ignore Zenigata’s explanation, for it was a completely understandable and valid excuse to stay in bed a couple of extra hours. Wasn’t it? 

Zenigata’s train of thought jumped the rails when something tugged at his sleeve just a few paces away from his car. 

Rapidly, he spun around, reaching for the gun that he didn’t have (he could only keep it on his person when on official patrols or chases that could potentially require self-defense or protection), drawing himself up to his full height, hoping he looked more intimidating than he felt. However, he knew chances of that were slim, what with the wad of fucking paper towel practically shoved into his nose. 

“Hey, what are you playing a--  _ Lupin?”  _ He cut himself off, demeanor quickly changing as he visibly deflated when his eyes locked with the thief’s, whose expression was one he… hadn’t really seen before. It wasn’t smug or cocky or playful or anything Zenigata was used to. 

“Did you just throw up, Pops?” He asked, skipping the witty small talk and cutting right to the chase, his voice as soft as the snowflakes resting on the tips of his eyelashes and as warm as the cherry of his cigarette, which glowed red as he inhaled. His hand remained on the inspector’s sleeve, squeezing even tighter, refusing to let the other man free of his grip. He stepped closer. 

“No,” Zenigata lied, rolling his eyes when Lupin’s worry-drenched mouth curved into an even deeper frown. He pretended that the thrill rushing up and down his spine when Lupin moved his hand to clasp around his wrist was simply from the cold. 

“Yes, you did. I know you did. I heard you, y’know,” he admitted sheepishly, thumb rubbing gently into the fabric of Zenigata’s sleeves. The gesture was too sweet, too intimate. Zenigata wanted to pull away, to shake the moron of a man off, tell him to scram, but instead, he allowed Lupin’s fingertips to trail from his wrist to his trembling, dry knuckles. “I went in after you to see if you were alright. You already looked sick when you ran in. But then I heard you, it sounded pretty bad,” 

“If you knew that I did, why’d you even ask?” Zenigata grumbled, sounding as mean as he could, hoping that his voice was enough to get Lupin to fuck off for once. He was in no mood to play games, no mood to humor the thief or his little act. 

“I don’t know. Are you alright?” Lupin now took the hand he had been touching between both of his own, and oh, Lord, if the warmth of his palms didn’t do something to poor Zenigata’s chest, he didn’t know what did.

He hesitated before he answered. This was clearly a trap, clearly, something to distract him while Jigen or Goemon or Fujiko or perhaps all three robbed the convenience store (though that wasn’t something they would ever do. They weren’t cheap like that. Zenigata was simply looking for reasons as to why this wasn’t real concern etched into Lupin’s features). Should he just shove Lupin away from him and drive home? Should he take a chance and arrest him now, right here, when he seemed almost… almost  _ vulnerable?  _

“I’m driving you home,” Lupin said suddenly, though Zenigata hadn’t even answered his previous question. 

“W- _ huh?!”  _ The inspector yelped, pulling his hand back in one jerky motion and holding it protectively to his chest. It felt as though it had been burnt in the white-hot flames of Lupin’s skin. “You most certainly are not,” he spat, taking a few steps back, though Lupin refused to let the distance between them grown, and took a few steps forward. 

“Yes, I am. Clearly, you aren’t doing too well, Pops, there’s something wrong with you. I don’t know if you know this, but people don’t normally have to pull over and vomit in the nearest bathroom they can find,” the thief leaned forward, his eyes just as pleading as his lips were urging. 

“This isn’t your business, Lupin,” Zenigata looked away, feeling his heart hammer in his chest when the other man leaned closer. He could almost feel Lupin’s breath on his skin, and the prospect of that scared him so terribly that he feared his fight or flight may take over at any minute. 

“Of course it is. Now, just let me do this for you, okay?” 

“I’m not going to  _ let you  _ do anything, alright? This doesn’t concern you. Don’t make me arrest you,” 

“You don’t have your cuffs,”

“How do you know that? You literally have no idea, this is just a shot in the dark,” 

And then, without so much as a warning, Lupin stepped into Zenigata’s personal space, reaching forward with his thin, talented fingers. 

He moved slow, making sure that Zenigata could see his every move, who, by this point, was frozen with fear and shock and something like guilt, or maybe it was awe.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Lupin’s hands slid across Zenigata’s sides, his palms sending shivers and up down the inspector’s spine, fingertips pressing very lightly into the flesh beneath the layers of clothing. Carefully, he moved his hands further down, slipping them into Zenigata’s coat pockets and poking around them for a few moments, before emerging once more, keys jangling in one hand, wallet looking embarrassingly thin in the other, his dark eyes never leaving the poor, shellshocked inspector’s. 

“See?” He breathed, searching Zenigata’s gaze for…  _ something. “ _ No cuffs. Now let me drive you home. You look so tired,”

Zenigata had been rendered speechless. From the soft voice to the gentle touch, he was completely frozen, eyes wide and stupid, breath caught in his still-stinging throat. He felt dizzy, a different kind than before, and he knew exactly what it was but like hell, he was going to give in to anything like  _ that.  _

He had to remind himself, almost regrettably so, that this was an act. It wasn’t real, wasn’t anything like concern or kindness or whatever you want to call it. What Lupin was doing was fake. It was fake. It had to be fake. 

However, when Zenigata’s eyes locked with Lupin’s, when their gazes met and lingered and he saw just how  _ warm  _ the thief’s pupils were, just how  _ sweet  _ his mouth looked, just how  _ supple  _ his pink-tinted cheeks were… oh, how real it all seemed. 

Zenigata swallowed thickly. “Don’t pretend to care about me, Lupin,” he mumbled, snatching his belongings back from the thief’s hands, who gladly let him take them and shove them back into his pockets moodily. 

“I’m not pretending. I just want to help,” 

“Oh,  _ please.  _ Like I’m gonna believe that,” 

“Why wouldn’t you? It’s obvious we care about each other. You know, Pops, I’m doing this because I know you’d do the exact same,” 

“No, I wouldn’t,”

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not,”

Yes. It was. It was absolutely a lie. 

Lupin tried to get close again, reaching out as though he was coaxing an anxious animal, only to have his hands swatted away. 

“I’m not in the mood for games, Lupin,” Zenigata said, voice becoming much stronger than it had been. 

“But I’m not playing any games,” the thief tried once more to get closer, growing frantic, almost, his eyebrows knitting together, as though he  _ needed  _ to touch Zenigata. 

_ If only he knew,  _ the inspector thought with a twinge of bitterness, an ache settling in his chest where the fluttering once was.

“Please, please, please, just let me help,” 

“Lupin,” Zenigata warned, and oh, there it was. There was that fight or flight he was so worried about earlier. His voice was not as strong as he wanted it to be, was not powerful or threatening or anything even vaguely commanding. It had weakened with Lupin’s attempts to get close. “Lupin.” He said again, hating the way the name quivered on his lips. 

Lupin’s gaze flicked across his face, so he turned away. 

“I’m leaving,” he said after a moment of silence so thick you could taste it. 

“You can’t, you’re--”

“I’m  _ leaving.”  _ Zenigata interrupted Lupin as he scrabbled to find any sort of words to hold his attention. He was not going to fall for something as simple as this, not going to let Lupin play him like a fiddle, not going to embarrass himself. That faux worry, that gentle look in his eye, that soft curve of his mouth… it was all an act and he knew it. There’s no way that it  _ couldn’t  _ be an act. No way that Lupin the Third could genuinely, truly,  _ actually  _ hold concern, hold  _ care,  _ for someone as pitiful as Zenigata.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very very sloppy chapter 🥱🥱 im so sorry i stg i was half asleep while writing this ive been so tiirrreeddd lately waaaaa,,,,. i'll try n do better next time!!!!!


	6. to give in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lupin can't explain it, not even if he tried. He wants this strange, gut-wrenching feeling to leave him alone, but every time Zenigata blinks in and out of his mind, he fears he may be sick. He wishes it would just leave, wishes that all of these strange thoughts would simply disappear, and yet he loves the warmth it all brings to his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got these cute strawberry sheets and theyre gonna match strawberry cow when she comes in december!!! 🥰🥰🥰 so excited idk what im gonna name her,,,,,,,,,....................... vanilla box cake maybe.........

“Oh, _wow!_ What heist!” The dazzling ruby held tight between Fujiko’s dainty fingers beamed bright, crimson light scattering across the floor, the exquisite gem cut just so that its glorious colors came out in little dots rather than a large stream from the source. The red spots quivered as the cat burglar tilted the precious stone in her grasp, eyes practically twenty times as bright as it. “I knew that our target was pretty rich, but hot _damn!_ These rocks are fat!” 

“Calm down, Marilyn Monroe, we still have to split ‘em up,” Jigen grunted from where he sat leaning against the bed, legs splayed out carelessly. As grumpy and cold as he sounded, however, there was a grin plastered across his worn face, cigarette following his lips as they snickered at the loot before him. 

“Miss Monroe preferred  _ diamonds,  _ y’know, so if you’re gonna call me that at least get me the proper gemstone,” Fujiko shot back, poking her tongue out at the gunman who laughed, reaching out with his foot to kick her in the ribs. She dodged, but just barely, and slapped at his ankle, joyfully threatening to puncture his skin with her nails, for “I know you know I can, Jigen dear!” 

(And then Jigen, of course, growled at her not to call him that, and so she did three more times.)

It had been a day or so since the group’s last job, and they were only just now getting along to splitting up the fruits of their labor. The heist itself had not been difficult, however, it required plenty of waiting in the cold, and several trips to lug heavy, heavy bags back to the getaway car. Plus, the ending had been just a  _ tad  _ hairy, and long story short, the four had to hide out beneath a trapdoor that barely had enough height to lay flat on their stomachs in. It was terribly uncomfortable, and Goemon got continuously overwhelmed, Jigen having to gently talk him down as Lupin and Fujiko did their damn best to hold their breath and make everything just a little bit  _ less  _ for him. 

It was uncomfortable and it was stressful, but nevertheless, they finally squirmed out of that awful little hole and sped home, tiny Fiat 500 spilling over with treasures, the four thieves laughing and kissing and having a miniature celebration because  _ wow,  _ that kid was  _ loaded,  _ and they were going to be set for a long, long,  _ long  _ time. 

Of course, though, all of that excitement wore them out. Which led to them dropping their bags of loot to be redistributed later. Instead, they rang up the front desk and got the most expensive, lavish items they possibly could from room service, eating their five-star meal as they watched shitty movies on the small TV in the hotel room.

All in all, it had been a pleasant heist and an even more pleasant evening, everyone squashing up together on the twin-sized mattress, legs tangled, arms pressed, chest against shoulder against back against hip. 

Comfortable closeness. Good food. Bags upon bags upon  _ bags  _ of riches. 

Lupin should’ve been in hog heaven, and he damn well knew it. 

However, that morning when he woke up with his head in Goemon’s lap, the samurai absently attempting to polish Zantetsuken all the while leaving the thief in his legs undisturbed, he just felt… hollow. As though his guts had been scooped right out of his belly, as though he was missing something. What it was, he had no idea. Or, at least, that’s what he thought. What he forced himself to believe. 

Truth be told, he knew exactly what he was missing. Knew exactly  _ who  _ he was missing. But he probably wouldn’t see that mess of a man until their next heist, which, judging by the massive jewels and wads of thick bills Fujiko and Jigen kept pulling from the linen sacks, would probably not be for a nice, long while.

He shimmied away from Goemon, allowing the samurai to finish tending to his sword, and instead crawled to lay at the foot of a bed like a dejected old dog, bedsprings squeaking in protest beneath him, sheets bunched up beneath his chest. Laying flat on his tummy, he crossed his arms beneath his chin and watched with mild interest as Jigen brought Fujiko close, cheeks nearly touching, to admire an opal in the natural sunlight that was filtering in through the frosting windows. It was strange, he thought with an idle tilt to his head, how much they seemed to enjoy one another’s company despite their constant spats. 

As he gazed at the pair and their quiet, almost private conversations, hands sifting through glimmering jewels and deliciously lustrous gold coins, he allowed his mind to drift. More specifically, he allowed it to drift to Zenigata when they had met the previous night, allowed it to drift to his expression and his shivering body and his waist which, Lupin had noticed had grown quite a little bit thinner than it should have been. The poor inspector had looked so  _ exhausted,  _ and the bags beneath his eyes were heavier than they had been in quite a while. He was losing color in his cheeks and nose, even his actions and normally loud voice seemed to be dulled down-- he just wasn’t himself. 

Lupin remembered how it took him every ounce of strength and willpower not to reach out physically, took him every bit of self-control he had in his body to keep his hands to himself, to not brush against Zenigata’s shivering knuckles or grip his broad shoulders or run his palms along the fabric of his coat. To not step closer and dare to reach out to cup his stubbled face. 

Zenigata was a resilient man, that was for damn certain. He was brave and tough and had the build of a fucking brick wall. Nothing could stop him, nothing could keep him from his target, and nothing could ever make him lose that special zeal so very specific to him and who he was. 

But right now… he just seemed small. And Lupin wanted nothing more than to gather the inspector up in his arms-- all six feet and four inches of him-- and let him rest. Wanted him to lay his sleepy head atop the thief’s chest and  _ sleep  _ for once in his life, wanted to card his thin fingers through that wonderfully salt and peppered hair, wanted to press his lips to Zenigata’s warm temple. 

...All in all, it was a strange thought. Because Lupin knew who he was and he knew who Zenigata was and there was no way in hell that he would ever harbor romantic feelings for him. No, his little fantasy, his short-termed musings, the places that his mind went as he stared blankly at his two friends and the loot they were rifling through, it was all hypothetical. In a hypothetical situation, if Lupin hypothetically felt the need to hypothetically hold Zenigata so close and murmur hypothetical confessions of pain and ache and yearning that he had hypothetically kept hidden for years… then sure. He would. 

But this was real life, and he was lying in a hotel bed surrounded by wonderful people and wonderful jewels and he shouldn’t be thinking about the inspector’s problems. Since when had he become so foolishly sentimental? Since when had he  _ cared  _ so much? He and Zenigata had certainly grown close, sure, but why did he feel such a strange, deep-rooted desire to protect a man who damn well didn’t  _ need  _ any protection? Why did he feel like he was obligated to make sure that Zenigata was eating and drinking enough water and keeping up with his health? It wasn’t like the inspector had ever done the same. 

Well, okay, maybe that was a lie. There was that one time a few years back when Lupin caught scarlet fever while the others were away, and Zenigata was the one to nurse him so gently back to health. 

And also that time in Barcelona when the thief had broken his leg whilst attempting to escape, and Zenigata scooped him right up in his big arms and ran faster than Lupin had ever seen before, all the while being tailed by guards and other policemen. He got into a fair bit of trouble for that stunt, and Lupin remembered feeling sickeningly guilty for it. 

...And then, of course, there were the million and one other times that Zenigata had shown deep, genuine care for Lupin and his health, both mental and physical, and had made personal sacrifices to help his “destined rival” (as he oh so lovingly put it). 

Lupin drew in a deep breath, gnawing at his lower lip as he exhaled sharply through his nose, sinking deeper into his crossed arms. He needed to get rid of this strange feeling  _ stat,  _ but he didn’t know what to do or where to start. He just knew that he hated it and that he wanted to go down and observe the treasures he and his friends had stolen and that he was tired of this strange fluttering right in the pit of his gut when his thoughts lingered on Zenigata for a little bit too long. 

With a sigh that might’ve been a little bit too melodramatic, he slid out of bed, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress and letting his bare feet sink into the ratty, short carpet that scratched uncomfortably at his skin. He straightened his back, leaning on his heels ever so slightly as, stretching his arms up and behind his head, he let forth an enormous yawn that cracked his jaw and made tiny tears sting at the corner of his eyes. 

Quietly, feeling incredibly stiff in the back and sour in the mouth, he stepped over to the little makeshift countertop, the one that stood near the chilly, frosting window, coffee pot already gurgling and full as the last few drips made ripples in the deep, dark liquid. 

He reached across the countertop, fiddling with the styrofoam cups in their plastic baggie provided by the hotel they were staying at, before managing to wriggle one free from its stack. As he pulled it out, he pressed his fingers into the soft material, frowning lightly as he stared at the little crescent moon indents his fingernails made, wondering whether or not the cup would break if he squeezed a little too hard. 

Figuring that he was thinking too intently about the strength of an itty bitty styrofoam cup, he glanced out of the window at the white scene laid out before him, staring down at the blankets of snow covering the tops of buildings and cars, flakes falling slowly against the light breeze, the roads scraped as clean as they would get and slick with ice as cars trembled slowly over them, trying hard not to skid or accidentally hydroplane down the steeper hills. 

He poured the coffee, little specks of it flying from the cup and landing hot on his skin, though to be quite honest, the warmth was welcome and pleasant against his clammy, shivering joints. Absently, he looked down to be sure he didn’t spill any coffee onto the countertop or the carpet, and, once satisfied with the amount he had poured himself, he allowed his gaze to drift back out the window, observing the pedestrians in their big coats and red noses and long scarves as, with white puffs of breath, they laughed and talked and enjoyed one another’s company. 

Lupin figured that it was the last day of school before winter break let out, for he spotted a gaggle of teenagers all in uniform racing one another on the snow-covered sidewalks. They were all fairly young, perhaps first or second years in high school, wearing double layers and enormous coats that went past their fingers as they linked arms and slipped and slid across the concrete. A few feet ahead of them was an elderly man walking an enormous Newfoundland dog, or perhaps the dog was walking  _ him,  _ as he was merely being dragged around as the enormous beast trotted merrily forward. The man wore a fuzzy pair of earmuffs, which he continuously had to adjust over and over again, as they were a tad too big for him. 

The thief sighed, slowly bringing his styrofoam cup of sub-par coffee towards his chapped lips (he’d ask Fujiko for some lip balm later if she had any, which she usually did tucked away in her purse or pockets or… anywhere, really), blowing across the surface but not taking a sip. He wanted to go out with his friends, wanted to bundle up and have a nice walk around in the snow, wanted to watch his normally composed and perfect group of pals stutter and trip along the slick ice, wanted to grab some actually  _ good  _ coffee and enjoy it at a window seat, or perhaps outside whilst sharing a cigarette or two with the others. It was a  _ wonderful  _ day to laze about, especially since they now had the money to do so (or, at least, the means for  _ getting  _ money. They would divvy it out and then sell their portions to fair buyers), and as much as he hated the cold, he loved the snow. 

However, for some strange reason, he simply couldn’t find the motivation to do  _ any  _ of this. Couldn’t find it in him to get up and put on a coat, didn’t see the appeal in pulling on a nice sturdy pair of boots and romping about in powder-soft whiteness. He was just tired, just feeling… feeling  _ off.  _ Something wasn’t quite right, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

At long last, he took a sip of his coffee, letting his eyes flutter closed, not so much out of enjoyment for the taste but, rather, to relish in the heat of the steam curling up in thin, white tendrils over the flushed apples of his cheeks and bright red nose. He always got so tinted in the wintertime, his fingertips, knuckles, cheeks, nose, and ears all turning such an embarrassingly bright pink. Of course, however, his thin lips paled in the chill, making him look like some sort of 70s slasher horror star now that his mouth had… completely disappeared. It was one of the few things he was self-conscious about appearance-wise (the other two things being his big, monkey ears and knobbly thin fingers. He hated them), and did everything in his power to keep other people from seeing.

“What’re you contemplating over there, Socrates?” Something small and  _ very  _ hard whizzed through the air and conked Lupin over the back of his head, causing him to bring his hand up to the dully throbbing area and turn around, a scowl on his face. Jigen was gazing at him with an unamused expression, arms crossed, hat dipping over his eyes. 

“Did you say Socrates like ‘ _ soh-crates,’  _ Jigen?” Fujiko grimaced, drawing the gunman’s attention toward her. 

“Yeah, duh? That’s how you say it, genius,” 

“It’s pronounced like  _ ‘sock-rah-tease,’  _ you asshole. Your way just sounds stupid,” 

“Yeah, ok, coming from the person who didn’t graduate college,” 

“You dropped out of high-school, marksman,” Fujiko blew a raspberry to a quite annoyed Jigen, who tossed her a glare so piercing Lupin swore she would bleed. 

“You can’t call me that,” he grumbled, huffing and turning away from her, very clearly forgetting all about Lupin. 

“Oh, yeah? And who  _ can,  _ hm?” Fujiko cooed, obviously about to set up a joke about poor Jigen and Goemon’s relationship, but was stopped short when the samurai cleared his throat, clicking his beloved Zantetsuken back into its sheath. Both the gunman and cat burglar looked his way. 

“You have completely diverged from the topic that Jigen had brought up earlier,” he said calmly, voice almost similar to that of a parent scolding their children with the whole “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” schpiel. “Lupin, what is on your mind?” He directed his gaze to the thief’s, who quickly averted his eyes, oddly uncomfortable with the sudden attention, using his coffee as an excuse to stall as he thought of an answer. 

Finally, when he couldn’t drink any more of what was in his cup (not because he had finished, but because it was gross), he thought of a brilliant, show-stopping, mind-boggling answer, one that would leave his friends awestruck and starry-eyed for weeks. 

“Nothin’,” he said, shrugging. “why do you ask?” 

“We can usually tell when you aren’t thinking, Lupin,” Fujiko deadpanned, stretching across the floor to gather up the little emerald that Jigen had thrown at the thief’s head. “you’re a lot more talkative,” she took a moment to admire the jewel in her hand, turning it over, smoothing the pads of her fingers over its gentle glow. He frowned as she slid back to her place, tossing the gem to Jigen, who gave a low whistle. 

“This is cut  _ clean,”  _ he remarked, and then, much to the thief’s disdain returned his focus back to Lupin. “y’know, she’s right,”

“Say that again, Jigen,” Fujiko simpered mockingly. 

“Don’t cream your pants, witch,” he shot back, and she scowled at him. “anyways, man, you  _ are  _ usually a lot louder when you don’t have much goin’ on upstairs,” 

“Maybe I’m just imagining sexy scenarios with all of my new money,” Lupin sniffed, bringing his coffee cup to his lips again before grimacing at the smell and placing it back down on the countertop. Unlike Jigen, he didn’t have any soft spot whatsoever for shit coffee. 

“You’d be making weird faces if that were the case,” Fujiko remarked, and Jigen hummed his agreement. “we know you better than this, Lupin,”

“Well  _ damn,  _ didn’t know I couldn’t just sit quietly with my thoughts,” the thief pouted. “what about Goemon over there? He’s always quiet, and you two hell-raisers don’t say a damn thing!”

“Do not bring my name into this argument, please,” 

“Sorry Goe,” Lupin replied quickly to the samurai’s calm, steady voice. 

“Yeah, he  _ never  _ talks. It’s normal,” Fujiko said. “you, on the other hand, don’t shut up,”

“Yeowch. Very sweet of you, Fujicakes,” 

“You know it’s true. You’re like those little chattering teeth toys, the kind you wind up-- you know what I’m talking about, right? The kind that go...” and then, looking devastatingly cute, she clacked her teeth together and raised her hand to her face, making yapping motions with her fingers. “You just don’t stop--”

“Yes, yeah, okay, I got it,” Lupin snapped, frowning, brows furrowing. Fujiko only smiled innocently, shrugging petite shoulders and returning to her little stack of treasures, admiring a thin necklace absolutely drenched in what looked like genuine pearls. “listen, maybe I’m just not in the mood to talk right now. Maybe I didn’t sleep well, or just had a bad day,” 

“But you  _ just  _ woke up, didn’t you?” Jigen asked, a hook in his left eyebrow. 

“That isn’t the point,”

“I get what you mean, man, but I’m just gonna say here and now that nothing you can say can trick us. There’s something on your mind, and unless you tell us, we’re just gonna keep bothering you,” 

“Nosy asses. In that case, I’m going out to buy more cigarettes,” Lupin frowned. 

“Did you not recently purchase a new pack of Gitanes?” Goemon asked from the bed, now sitting cross-legged behind Jigen, watching languidly over his shoulder as the gunman sifted through his share of goods. 

“Shut up, Goemon. I’ll see you all later,”  Lupin sniffed, leaving his little styrofoam cup of shitty hotel coffee on the tiny countertop and making his way to the door, focusing on putting his shoes on and stepping out, on getting away from whatever interrogation the others had decided to push upon him. 

“Hey, Lupin,” Fujiko said just as he reached the entryway, foot already beginning to slide into one of his boots. He looked back, blinking at her, willing to humor his inquisitive friends  _ just  _ once more before he got the hell out. 

“Hm?” 

Her eyes locked with his and then, much to his surprise, trailed down his body before trailing right back up. He furrowed his brow, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable, crossing his arms over his stomach. 

“What is it, Fuj?” He asked nervously. She sniffed. 

“Are you really going out in just boxers and a tee-shirt?” 

And then Jigen snorted aloud and Goemon hid a soft, subtle chuckle behind his hand and Lupin felt his cheeks burn bright red.

Lupin had to wear his boots instead of regular shoes, snow coming all the way up to his ankles. He didn’t mind, though-- they were comfortable and warm, and he wasn’t all that concerned about having a matching outfit, not when he was clad in one of Fujiko’s bigger sweaters, the dark green cotton one that swallowed him whole, and Jigen’s enormous black parka that he constantly nabbed from the gunman. He looked quite the mess to be completely honest, but hey-- he was warm, wasn’t he? And besides, it wasn’t as though he was trying to impress anybody in the gas station he was walking to. 

He had decided not to take the Fiat for some ungodly reason and quickly regretted it as he crunched through the snow, feeling his fingers go stiff. He shoved both hands into the pockets of Jigen’s parka, a shiver creeping up and down his spine, one that made him sniffle as his bright red nose began to run. God, he hated the cold. It was out to get him for sure, and he  _ certainly  _ wasn’t in any mood to be gotten, not right now.

For the past several, several hours, he simply hadn’t been able to shake Zenigata from his mind. He kept thinking about how  _ awful  _ he had looked in the humming neon lights of the convenience store, entire body shaking but not from the bite of winter. Lupin had wanted nothing more than to just  _ comfort  _ the man, but clearly, Zenigata didn’t want to be touched. His body language wasn’t unlike that of a scared stray dog, and, truth be told, poor Lupin had never been much of an animal person. How the hell was he supposed to help the inspector when he was probably the most emotionally unintelligent man on planet earth? 

He sniffed, wiping at his nose, stopping at a crosswalk alongside three other people. They were all about his age, wearing jackets overtop suits and well-polished shoes, suitcases clamped between gloved fingers as they most likely made their sleepy ways to the subway to head home for the day. One of them-- a woman, just a little bit taller than Lupin was-- yawned, her blonde curly hair falling over her shoulders and spilling out across her back as she undid the ponytail it had been tied in. Normally, Lupin would’ve thought her to be quite attractive, and it’s not like she  _ wasn’t,  _ his mind was just a tad… occupied at the moment. 

When the lights changed on the other side of the street, he found himself needlessly jogging to beat the cars so that they wouldn’t have to wait for him to walk, a habit he had picked up as a young boy and never quite shook. As a matter of fact, he had accidentally influenced his friends to do the same-- the first to be Jigen, Fujiko picking up on it after and Goemon, who seemed to enjoy talking his time everywhere he went, brought up the rear, finally giving up on walking across the streets and instead sprinting as though his very honor as a samurai depended on it. He really was an all or nothing guy, that was for damned sure. 

As Lupin made his hasty way toward the other side of the street, he looked down the direction he was originally going. The cold air stung at his eyes and he squinted, having to blink back a few tears, noticing that if he were to walk in  _ that _ direction then the wind would most definitely be  _ against  _ him. He would have to endure it for about two miles, which wasn’t bad at all, but judging on how his fingers felt (as in he could not feel them. Not at all), it’d probably turn out a lot worse than he expected. He grit his teeth for a moment, hunching himself over like a little gargoyle off of the side of a building, ignoring the shoulders that brushed against his own as more and more people crossed the street, footsteps growing a little bit more frantic as the cars began to move again. 

There was a little corner store just a few blocks away from here, he thought, chewing on his lip. On the way was a coffee shop, too, so maybe he could pick up a nice hot drink that actually tasted good instead of whatever gruel was at the hotel. 

Although, if he took the shorter way, he would be out for less time than he wanted, and wouldn’t be able to clear his head, not in the way he wanted to at least. He had to get rid of those uncomfortable thoughts floating around his mind, the ones about Zenigata and how he was feeling and whether or not he needed help and how Lupin could help him and how perfect his big, calloused hands were. 

Lupin blinked, finding himself standing quite awkwardly and alone on the sidewalk, bundled up and curled in on himself as he attempted to withstand the cold. A chilly breeze danced subtly across his face which quickly transformed into an angry gust of wind, snowflakes sticking to his cheeks and eyelashes, rudely invading his space, making his teeth chatter and skin sting. Perhaps he shouldn’t be left alone with his thoughts for too long, after all, he realized, and turned around on his heel, digging a little patch in the snow before starting down the sidewalk to the nearby corner store, hands curling into little fists within his pockets as he fiddled idly with the lighter that he had shoved in his left. 

As he crunched through the snow, pads of his fingertips smoothing over the etched out design of Venus, he thought about the night Zenigata had told him about his new case. Thought about his sunken eyes, almost dimmer than usual, and how already he looked so, utterly  _ exhausted.  _ Lupin, for some strange reason unknown to him, had the overwhelming desire to stay by his side that cold, cold night. Wanted to let him know that he was alright, that the thief was there for him in whatever way a thief could be there for a police inspector. When he had desperately grappled with the option of letting Zenigata leave or having a smoke with him, his heart had been pounding so fast that he swore to God he could hear it right in the hollows of his ears. 

It was odd-- normally, he didn’t mind when the inspector shoved him away or left him without indulging in his fun little quips and playful prods, but this was different. Since he had laid low for about a month before now, he hadn’t really gotten to see Zenigata. It didn’t necessarily  _ bother  _ him, really, or at least he thought it didn’t. He had chalked up the itch to see the dear inspector as a simple longing to pester him, to annoy and berate him as much as he could. He thought he just wanted to have a little bit of fun; you know, piss off law enforcements, run away, get Zenigata into trouble with the commissioner (truth be told, though, Lupin always felt guilty when the inspector got scolded for something his fault), rinse and repeat. The dance he did every day simply wasn’t the same without Zenigata stumbling around and stepping on his toes by accident. 

Lupin rounded a corner, kicking up a large patch of snow as he did so, staring down at the melting flakes on his boots. The forecast predicted at least another inch by tomorrow morning, and he wondered if he woke up early enough he’d be able to see the clean sheet of snow covering the little city. He loved the way it looked from the hotel window, even when there were footprints and tire tracks and random snow angels scattered throughout the roads and sidewalks, even when there were people clearing the icy coldness away with industrial-sized snow plows and big, metal shovels and bags upon bags of salt to make the road a little less dangerously slippery. However, just once, he wanted to see it clean, smooth, and undisturbed.

When he and the others first hunkered down in Miyoshi, Lupin was a little disappointed that it wasn’t a more glamorous city. He loved Tokyo for its flashing lights and bright neons, loved Los Angeles for its glimmering strip clubs and filthy casinos, loved Paris because come  _ on,  _ how could he not? He was French, Paris was French-- it was a matter of pride for his nationality. Plus, he had managed to romance  _ several  _ beautiful women in Paris, simply because it just held that sort of atmosphere, so truly, that was a plus. 

Miyoshi, however, wasn’t big or bright or flashy. It was… a city. A plain city, not at all Lupin’s style. Not the enormous, loud, wonderfully sleazy places with bars on every corner and people in their finest attire as they roamed the streets that he was used to, that he loved ever so much, but normal. Simple.

It had tall buildings, some of which kissed the clouds and lost themselves in the mist, and it had bookstores next to second-hand clothing shops. The parks were quaint, and most of them held small ponds with cute brown ducks and their lines of downy yellow babies, playgrounds nearby so that schoolchildren could run and discuss the happenings of the day with their friends. There were a few street vendors along the more populated areas of the city and a big town square with a fountain that seemed to be quite the popular place for first dates, and somewhere near the suburbs was a graveyard, small and quiet, just like everywhere else. It was so very regular, nothing about it stood out, at least not to Lupin. 

So, truly, it caught him somewhat off guard when he found himself… falling for it. He fell for the roads and the stretches of countryside that bordered the outside of the city’s limits and for the ginkgo trees and their little triangular leaves flitting down from the branches. Fell for the public pools that were open late, late, late at night, the ones with the hot tubs that had bubbles and jets and seemed to be the best place in the world to relax after a long day of planning illegal activities. He loved the way the rural areas were so quiet, so calming, and he loved the way the urban areas had a sense of coziness, one that those bigger, gaudier cities always seemed to lack. 

Most of all, though-- and this is what Lupin had adamantly been avoiding the entire time-- he loved that Zenigata lived in Miyoshi. 

And the fact that… the fact that the only reason he enjoyed being in this damned city, the only reason he was reluctant to return home, to cash in his stolen portion of jewels for money and fly all the way back to his apartment which, of course, he loved, the only reason he wanted to stay was because of the inspector, it just felt wrong. Terrible. 

Every night, he would lay awake, staring at the ceiling as Jigen and Fujiko snored beside him, and he would just  _ think.  _ He would think about Zenigata. About who Zenigata was to him. About those rumors of the inspector’s alleged feelings for Lupin. About what that meant to the thief. About what  _ he  _ meant to the thief. 

Lupin curled in on himself just a little bit tighter as a gust of wind ruffled his hair and stung at his exposed skin, head turning away on instinct, eyes closing for a brief moment. The little corner store was just up ahead, and he prayed that it would have an ample heating system. He could barely feel his fingers anymore, much less his toes, and his cheeks were so cold they stung. 

He looked up when the wind passed, eyes glazed over, tears stinging the corners as snowflakes fell on his lashes, gently melting upon impact. There were a few pigeons sitting on the railing of the staircase that led to the entrance of the corner store, fat and round, little scaly feet hidden beneath feathers, fluffy cheeks puffed out around thin, dark beaks. Their beady eyes looked upon his cautiously, though they didn’t make any move to fly away; they were used to people by now, and probably didn’t care about him so long as he didn’t try to touch any of them. 

His boots tapped against the concrete stairs, which had been protected from snow by the overhang. The little group of pigeons looked up at him, cocking their tiny heads, shuffling nervously, blinking at him. He blinked right back. 

“Hi,” he said softly as he passed. “I don’t have anything for you. Unless, of course, you want a smoke, in which case, I’ve got some cigarettes,” 

The pigeons didn’t answer, so he smiled, turning away from them, gaze falling upon the floor as to watch his step on not slip on any patches of ice that may have formed from spilled drinks or stray snow that managed to sneak past the overhang. He shimmied his right hand out of its pocket, absently wiggling his fingers, hoping to regain feeling in the ends of him so that he wouldn’t look like an absolute idiot when he swung the door open to enter the building. 

However, perhaps he wouldn’t need to worry about scrabbing with the door handle, for someone swung it open and stepped out-- or, shuffled, really,-- and Lupin figured that they would hold the door open for him. So, he walked a little bit faster, hoping to catch up and not make them wait too long, but he failed to think that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ whoever was holding open the door wasn’t doing so on purpose, but rather, had gotten distracted by the clerk behind the counter, waving goodbye with their head turned away from the oncoming thief. 

Lupin hopped up the last step just as the stranger turned around, looking up from the floor  _ just  _ in time to see how close they were, but his brain didn’t process it fast enough and the stranger didn’t seem to notice him until-- 

Lupin’s face collided with a chest, strong and sturdy and… oddly familiar in shape and size. 

“Oh, geez, so sorry! I didn’t look where I was going!” Lupin spat out, quick and flustered as he stepped away from the man who was a good head taller than him. His eyes trailed upward as he spoke. “I should’ve stopped starin’ at my shoes for so long, I really didn’t mean to bump you like that, I… I…”

His voice trailed off, getting caught up in his throat, and he felt his mind blank. 

“I think next time we run into each other so casually, I should be allowed to arrest you,” Zenigata said, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft. Hoarse, too, and his smile was sweet as honey as his eyes locked with the dumbfounded thief’s. 

“H-Pops, hi. Hey,” he sputtered, tongue swelling up uncomfortably in his mouth as though he had been stung by a bee. His heart hammered in his chest-- it was so unfortunate that he had to run into the very person he had been thinking so much about today. “hi,” he said again, though it was a little less frantic this time. 

“Hi,” Zenigata replied, looking just a little bit nervous as he shuffled to the side, leaning backward to pull the door open with shivering fingers, joints stiff and locked up from the chill outside. “going in?” 

“No,” Lupin lied. 

“But you were--”

“No, I wasn’t. I thought I was but I… well, yeah,” Lupin interrupted, though it was clear that he didn’t have anything to say. Not willing to argue, Zenigata released the door, letting it swing shut, the little bell chiming when it hit the frame. 

For an uncomfortably long moment, the two just stood there, not speaking, not looking at each other. They shuffled and sniffed and tapped their toes against the concrete, but kept silent, mouths shut. Every so often, Lupin would open his mouth, a thick cloud of white air emerging as he tried to find something to say, but the words he chose never seemed to stick to his tongue and died just as quickly as the snowflakes against his skin. More than twice, he saw Zenigata do the same.

It was the inspector who broke the painful silence, clearing his throat, which then turned into quite a nasty cough, one that doubled him over, face buried in his elbow as Lupin stared, frantically trying to come a little close, trying to put a comforting hand on Zenigata’s shaking shoulder, trying to console him in any way that he could. However, the coughs soon died down, and Zenigata rose back to full height, apologizing quietly for the fit. 

“I should probably get back to my car. Lunch break is almost over,” he said, almost reluctantly, and Lupin nearly stopped him. Nearly blurted out another half-baked excuse, nearly bummed yet another cigarette off of him if only it meant he could linger just a little longer at the entrance to the corner store. 

He had missed him, and he wouldn’t deny it. He would deny the fluttering in his stomach and the tightness of his throat and the heat in his cheeks and the way his head just got a little bit fuzzy whenever his thoughts drifted to Zenigata, sure. He would deny it quite adamantly, and force himself to forget about it ‘til it happened again. 

But he could no longer pretend that he didn’t miss the man standing-- tall and cold and looking downright terrible-- in front of him. 

However, if he asked for a cigarette like he had done the  _ last  _ time he tried to stick by Zenigata’s side, he was sure to be mocked or denied or ignored. It wasn’t going to work. The inspector’s eyes said it all, and he was clearly not in the mood to be ridiculed by the thief who he had failed time and time again to capture. 

(Because that was the only reason Lupin had missed him, right? He had missed ridiculing him, right? That was it, wasn’t it?)

“I’ll walk you to it,” Lupin blurted, unable to help himself. Zenigata furrowed his eyebrows, giving him an odd, confused look, lips pursing. “to your car, I mean,”

“No, yeah, I got that. W--uh, why?” The inspector asked though he did nothing to stop Lupin when he began to walk, stuffing his big hands inside of his pockets, sniffling slightly. Lupin couldn’t help but notice how red his nose was, how flushed his cheeks were from the harsh, cold air. 

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” he shrugged, offering a half-hearted grin. 

“I guess that’s fair,” he shrugged, pausing on the step below Lupin to turn and face the thief. “oh, and be careful, there’s a slippery patch right there,” 

“Huh?” Lupin asked, foot falling atop the next step of the stairs, though instead of the solid, rough concrete, the soles of his shoes met with the slick of black ice. 

A pair of hands much larger than his own, much stronger than his own, reached out and grabbed hold of his waist, effectively catching him from slipping. 

Lupin’s breath caught in his throat as Zenigata’s fingertips pressed into his body, gently pulling him closer as together, they descended the rest of the way down the stairs, warmth mingling, breath visible in puffs of foggy white through their cold lips. 

The faint smell of clove and packets of ramen noodles followed Zenigata as he walked, a thick haze of cigarette smoke clinging to his coat. His chin was growing more stubble, and an old, peeling bandaid wrapped itself as tight as it could ‘round his thumb, graphite smudged along the outermost part of his hand. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his lips were chapped, and right on his neck was a scar that Lupin hadn’t seen before. It ran up from his shoulder, thin, nearly white, glistening in the light that bounced off of it. If the thief were to lean in just a little bit, if he were to stand on his tip-toes...

“You alright?” Zenigata asked, forcing the thief to get out of his head and look the inspector directly in the face as he spoke. Warm hands slid away from a thin waist. Lupin almost caught them, almost placed them back where they had been, almost told Zenigata that they belonged there. “You’re shaking,” 

“It’s cold,” Lupin breathed. 

“It felt different,” 

“That’s strange,”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is,” Zenigata sniffed, and for a moment, it looked as though he was going to have another coughing fit, and Lupin was prepared to come closer, prepared to put his hands all across his broad shoulders or maybe hold him steady at the waist. He just wanted to touch him again. It was an odd feeling. He hated it. 

“Are you-- um, are you feeling any better?” Lupin asked after yet another moment of awkward silence. When the inspector cocked his head to the side, hands sliding back into his coat pockets, he tried to explain himself a little bit more. “I mean, well. You know. Last time, I heard you throw up. I was just wondering if you were, you know, finally dying or something,” 

“Ah,” Zenigata said, turning on his heel, beginning to walk away. However, it was clear that Lupin was supposed to follow, and so, quickly, he did, snow covering the rubber toes of his boots as he shuffled forward, crossing his arms tight across his chest to keep warm. “I was fine in the first place, you just jump to conclusions,”

“Throwing up isn’t ‘fine,’ Pops,” 

“I probably just ate some bad noodles, that’s it,” 

“You’re really stupid, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Zenigata rolled his eyes, a crooked smile tugging at his lips just like it tugged at Lupin’s heart. He inhaled a little too quickly, cold air rushing to fill his lungs, making his mouth cotton dry. 

“You’re getting sick,” he said, fingers curling nervously into his palms. Zenigata’s smile dropped, eyebrows elevating slightly. “you’re getting sick and you’re still working,” 

“I’m not getting sick, Lupin,” Zenigata assured the thief immediately, who didn’t believe  _ that  _ statement for a second. “you’re just getting paranoid. And soft, too, my God, since when have you cared so much about my health? That isn’t your job, you ain’t my mother,” he snorted, reaching out idly to grab hold of his car door’s handle. 

“Well, you know, old people are more vulnerable to weak sicknesses. Such as, you know, the  _ common cold,”  _ Lupin spat back immediately, tone a little bit more venomous than he had intended, worry seeping into intestines when the notion that he could  _ possibly  _ care about Zenigata’s well-being was brought into the conversation. 

“Damn! Guess I was wrong,” the inspector laughed, though it was forced, fake. Lupin could tell. Sure, it was pretty similar to his regular laughter-- loud, brash, bold, albeit a little bit wheezy due to his declining health and increasing temperature-- he even did the gestures the same. But there was something a little too mechanic about it, something a little too practiced, a little too artificial. 

If it had been anybody else, Zenigata would’ve been clean off the hook. 

But this was Lupin. 

And even though he didn’t know about what Zenigata liked to do in his free time or what type of person he really was, even though he only just recently figured out how vast his interests were due to a few books he had pulled from the inspector’s very shelves… even though Zenigata outside of his work was practically a stranger to Lupin, a very beautiful, warm, incredible stranger... at the very  _ least, _ the thief knew his body language. It was probably the loudest thing about him. 

Without thinking, he reached out, hand slow and cautious, as though he were reaching for an open flame. Zenigata didn’t seem to notice the way his fingers crept apart, shivering so very violently but not at all from the cold, oh so close to touching the inspector’s wrist, just a hair’s breadth away from skin meeting skin, barely inches apart from the most Lupin felt like he could do, from the tenderest, most subtle of gestures, one that told him  _ you’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.  _

But, of course, he stopped. Because to touch him would be to admit that something was  _ there.  _ And Lupin just couldn’t do that. Not right now. 

“I’ll catch you next time, Lupin,” Zenigata’s voice snapped the thief out of his conflicting thoughts, and he forced himself to meet the other man’s gaze, blinking away some of the dryness from his eyes when the breeze had blown rigid, cold air into them. The inspector was ducking into his car, one foot already resting against the floor as the rest of his body leaned out, a thin, weak smile--but, thank God, more genuine than that laugh had been-- and at this angle, the way he was hunched over, he was just about Lupin’s height. “and I mean that as a threat,” 

Lupin snorted, pushing back the realization that he was only one step and a gentle lean away from Zenigata’s lips. It was a horrible thought. He hated it. He hated it so much. He wished the moment would last forever. “Wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Pops. Matter of fact, I’d be kinda disappointed if you didn’t,” 

Zenigata only gave a hum of acknowledgment and then slid fully into his car, slamming the door shut behind him, making Lupin wince ever so slightly at the loud, harsh noise. He felt like there was more to say, felt the words as they stuck to his gums and the roof of his mouth like peanut butter, but he forced himself to swallow them as he saw Zenigata back out of his parking space. They tasted bitter going down. 

“Wow, your hands!” Fujiko exclaimed, bringing the thief’s shivering digits right up close to her plump lips, which brushed sweetly against Lupin’s skin. Normally, he would’ve made some lewd joke, something that was sure to get the entire room groaning in exasperation. His mouth did not move. 

He had come in only ten minutes ago, slipping his shoes off at the door and, before he even said a  _ single  _ word to any of his friends who all stared quite expectantly at him, he shuffled into the bathroom where he knew their overnight bags were kept. There was snow clinging to his shoulders and the knees of his pants (he had fallen, much to his severe embarrassment), and if he stayed in those wet clothes for a single moment longer, he felt as though he was going to go completely insane. 

As Fujiko blew hot breath onto his fingers, Lupin felt Jigen’s fist collide sweetly with his back, hard enough to invoke some sort of jostling, though the tender familiarity of the action overruled any violence from the gesture completely. “You buy those cigarettes you wanted?” He asked, and Lupin could only shake his head. “Did you buy… anything?”

Once again, Lupin only shook his head to and fro. There was a plan forming in his pea-sized brain, and it was stupid and none of his friends were going to go along with it and he was  _ sure  _ to be ridiculed about it. But oh, baby, it was there. The seed was planted, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop watering it now. 

“You’re so creepy when you don’t say anything, you know,” Fujiko sighed, puffing another wave of hot air on his hands, massaging her dainty fingers into his knuckles. She had taken off her acrylics-- rather, one had broken off, and she decided that she didn’t care about the rest if they weren’t  _ all  _ there, and thus a five-thousand yen manicure went down the drain with the help of nervous teeth-- and her short, somewhat uneven nails poked at his skin. Regardless, it felt good, helping to loosen any stiff joints and ultimately warm him up. “I like it better when you chatter mindlessly. It’s like white noise,”

Jigen snorted at this, clearly agreeing with her statement. 

“You’ve been acting like this  _ all day,”  _ she continued with a roll of her eyes. “I feel like you’ve got another heist for us, even though we  _ just  _ finished this job. You can take a break every now and then, you know that right?” 

She looked at him expectantly, a punchline on the tip of her tongue, one that she was waiting for Lupin to deliver. However, he hadn’t been paying attention; as a matter of fact, he barely even heard her. Was this really such a good idea? Would it get him into trouble? Would he be scolded, maybe even hated by the one person he wanted to help from this disaster of an idea? 

“Hey, Lupin?” Fujiko asked softly, cocking her head ever so slightly to the left, letting her hands lower slowly to the mattress. “Lupin? Lupin? You don’t  _ actually  _ have something new planned, do you? I was just joking about that?” 

Silence. Lupin worried at his bottom lip, rolling over the options in his mind. This could very well be the easiest thing he had ever done. But then, of course, it could  _ also  _ be the most difficult. He didn’t know his target all that well, and it was clear that nobody else had ever been able to thwart them before. Was he willing to risk it? 

“Heyyyyy Lupin? Earth to Lupin-- c’mon, now,” Fujiko pouted. 

The thief thought of the way Zenigata had looked today. He seemed even worse than before. He was just so  _ tired  _ lately. 

“Would you say somethin’, man? You’re kinda giving us the creeps, here,” Jigen spoke next, awkwardly leaning in front of the thief’s face, attempting in vain to grab his attention. “dude, snap  _ out  _ of it,” 

Would it be worth it? Would the risk be worth the outcome? 

Goemon didn’t say a word. He seemed to know exactly what was coming, and sat still and quiet on the floor, tending to Zantetsuken as he so often did. He wasn’t cleaning it, this time, though-- he seemed to be looking it over. Perhaps for any scuffs or scratches. Maybe he was looking at whether or not a shadow fell over the blade. 

To see Zenigata smile again, to hear him laugh again, to see him vibrant and bursting with health and life as, once more, he tried in vain to capture Lupin, who was ready to admit that he loved that chase just as much as the inspector did…

“The hell’s gotten into you?” Fujiko asked though she sounded more concerned than accusatory. “Is something bothering you? Just tell us what you’re  _ thinking!” _

… yeah. Yeah, that was worth it. Seeing Zenigata-- not the disheveled, tired inspector working on a case that was clearly eating him alive, working under someone who clearly didn’t know what she was doing when it came to mysteries but treated all of her employees like military, working so hard that he was clearly sick, no-- seeing  _ his  _ Zenigata again.  _ That  _ was worth it. 

His mind was made up. 

“At least answer, I mean, come on, it’s kinda rude to just sit in silence!” Fujiko was saying, frowning, the warmth of her hands still soothing the chill of the thief’s.

“Guys,” Lupin said at last, and all three heads snapped to attention, silence falling heavy over the room, so thick you could cut it, so thick you could feel it weighing down on your shoulders, so thick it was similar to the blanket of snow on the concrete outside. “I think we need to capture those criminals that Pops has been chasing. I think we need to help him close his case.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fujiko jigen and goemon: hi lupin hii are u feeling okay? we're worried about u because we love you so bad 
> 
> lupin, hunched over like the garden gnome in my neighbors yard that got smashed to bits just last week: can you guys shut the fuck up im repressing


	7. lost and found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenigata's fever is beginning to take a turn for the worst and he isn't entirely sure how much longer he can handle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X9K2qUGB5k&ab_channel=WakePulse  
> this video has been keeping me conscious for the past several days now

How many days had it been? Three? Four?

Four, Zenigata realized as he stared himself right in the eye, standing hunched and wrapped in blankets in front of his dirty bathroom mirror, nose runny, eyes bloodshot, teeth chattering from the cold. 

Right. Four days. Four days since he had run in with Lupin at the corner store as he was buying Tylenol, four days since the thief had looked so utterly _captivated_ with him that it stopped the breath right there in his lungs. Four days since he had asked Zenigata, truly and genuinely asked, about his well-being, and four days since, when the inspector pressed his hands to that lanky skeleton waist, he could practically _feel_ Lupin’s pulse beneath his skin, pounding into every bone, every muscle, every tendon and delicate capillary. He had seemed afraid that snowy, cold day, like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide as saucers in that brief moment they met Zenigata’s gaze. 

A twitch in the inspector’s nose made him stop for a moment, train of thought derailing as his eyes squinted and watered and his mouth flinched and he drew his head back and--

_achoo!_

\--he sneezed quite violently, his entire body being affected by the action, rocking back and forth as he sniffled and drew his nose away from the crook of his elbow, wrapping his little cocoon of blankets tighter around his sweater and flannel pyjama pants. Quietly, he groaned, reaching a hand out of the enormous comforter drawn around his shoulders, pressing his palm to the top of his head, running his fingers along his hair.

He had--thank God-- gotten out of his funk long enough to give it a wash, and it was no longer greasy or stringy, instead soft and smelling like his cheap, off-brand shampoo. However, his weakened state, the constantly lying in bed and hiding beneath bedsheets and groaning and murmuring and burying himself beneath piles and piles of whatever warmth he could find had taken quite the toll on its tidiness, and now, it lay in a somewhat tangled mess sticking up every which way atop his head. 

He would have to get up in the morning and brush it through to untangle the knots, for right now, he simply didn’t have the motivation. That, or he was dead tired-- maybe both, to be completely honest-- and it was long past his terribly early bedtime of nine PM. Which, of course, wasn’t exactly _normal_ for him, as, usually, he tended to stay up well past two in the morning and then wake up four hours later at six AM to get to work in time, but right now, he just felt different. Strange. Off. He wasn’t sick, for to admit he was sick was to take a few days off of work, so instead, he was simply out of it. Not on his A-game, loopy, hazy, muddled, whatever you wanted to call it so long as it didn’t involve his physical health. 

Once more, Zenigata sniffled, looking at his rather sunken appearance in the mirror, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the way his once vibrant, rosy dark skin had turned a quite sickly, ashen color. It wasn’t anything new to him; as a matter of fact, he got sick quite often whilst working on Lupin’s case, and would be reduced to a sniffling, sneezing, coughing mess, though that never deterred him from his work. In fact, he would be even _more_ determined, sure that if he was able to apprehend the criminal while he was at his lowest, maybe the commissioner-- or, anybody, really-- would see that hey, maybe Koichi Zenigata isn’t all that worthless after all. Maybe Koichi Zenigata can _do_ something, maybe Koichi Zenigata is deserving of something, anything at all, maybe Koichi Zenigata isn’t half bad at his job, maybe Koichi Zenigata just has a very, very respectable nemesis. 

But, of course, for some strange reason, whenever he fell ill, Lupin was nowhere to be seen. Which meant that he wasn’t ever able to prove himself to his coworkers or, more importantly, his boss. 

On the bright side, though, it meant he could take a bit of time to recoup. Lay in bed for a few days, eat noodle soup from a can, watch cooking shows ‘til he fell asleep early in the evenings, generally just take better care of himself. By the time whatever sickness plaguing him finally faded away, Lupin would be back in action and, like clockwork, Zenigata would swing right back in the rhythm of things. 

(He loved that part about being sick. The getting better part. The being able to see Lupin again part. He loved it so much)

But the Barnett pair was a different case with different people and different circumstances. Unlike the surprisingly kindhearted Lupin gang, these two were _dangerous._ Actually dangerous. They had already caused one death, and there were probably more to come if they weren’t thrown behind bars soon, so there wasn’t any time to rest, not for the inspector. Even though he was only doing paperwork, even though he was stuck at the office, working overtime (and not getting paid for said overtime), he was going to prove that he had more to offer than anybody originally thought through hard work and undeniably powerful determination. 

Zenigata coughed into his elbow, head rattling, chills shooting up and down his spine as though he were in the Arctic. He groaned lightly, realizing that, at some point, he was going to have to leave his protective blanket forcefield and change into his work clothes. Which, admittedly, had been a lot laxer since he was doing _office_ work instead of being on the case front and center, but still. The prospect of getting out of his flannel bottoms was heartbreaking to him, and he tried not to think about it too much as he shuffled slowly to his bedroom, being sure to flip off his bathroom light as he exited the already dimly-lit room. 

Not for the first time, he noticed that, when he had looked down, the bathroom tiles had been… cleaner than usual. Not only that but, as he ran his hand absently along a small desk with a fruit bowl and ashtrays, no dust came up on his fingertips when he lifted the digits to his face. Plus, those ashtrays, the ones that stood atop the little desk and used to be overflowing with old cigarette butts and a nice, thick caking of debris were clean. Like, actually clean, scrubbed down, good as new. 

His dishes had been washed, bookshelf (and books!) dusted and wiped down, blinds and windows no longer dirty and smudged, cushions on his furniture flipped and fluffed and even vacuumed down. Vacuumed, for God’s sake! Zenigata, when he wanted to, could be neat and tidy and clean, sure, but never once in his whole life did he ever fucking _vacuum_ his cushions. That just wasn’t something he did. 

His apartment, for the first time in ages, wasn’t so dark, wasn’t so musty and cold and empty. The dust bunnies had taken their little dust bunny children and moved out to wherever dust bunnies go, and the dirt beneath his kitchen sink was scrubbed away so meticulously it was almost as though there had never been dirt there at all. Dishes put away, dishwasher empty, _sink_ empty, tile scrubbed, mirrors mostly polished, picture frames straightened-- it was all just so tidy, and yet, he hadn’t laid a finger on his designated “cleaning closet” (the one just across from the bathroom full of brooms, mops, buckets, and sponges) in what felt like ages. 

And the strangest thing about this, the most confusing thing, was that sure, everything was a lot cleaner, but nothing was much… tidier. Except for the dishes in the sink and dishwasher, nothing at all had been put away. There were still a pair of old pants lying adjacent to the laundry basket in the bathroom, still pencils and pens and loose papers littered across the coffee table where he had been working, still his tortoise-shell reading glasses sitting atop one of the windowsills, still a few empty beer bottles on the floor next to the bookshelf. It was as though somebody had come in, meticulously dusted and wiped down every surface, and then put everything back right where it had been. Which, obviously, was probably _the_ most absurd thought to ever cross Zenigata’s mind, but he sure as hell hadn’t been cleaning. 

As concerning as something like this probably _should_ be, though, the inspector… couldn’t care less. His apartment was cleaner, which meant it was one less thing he had to worry about when he finally recovered, and that, in itself, was a relief. He was willing to take any victory, no matter how minuscule or odd, each and every time it presented itself to him, and the fact that his house was cleaner than before was more than enough for him to be satisfied.

Zenigata shuffled into his bedroom, head throbbing dully, right in the back of his skull as though somebody had made a fierce blow to him with a baseball bat. It hurt like all hell tonight, and he knew that it’d hurt like all hell in the morning, and there wasn’t much of anything he could do about it. He’d take a Tylenol when he woke up, find whatever painkillers he had in that awkward pill and battery cocktail in the drawer next to his cutlery, and then power through the day. Just like yesterday, just like the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, so on and so forth. Until he felt better or until this damned case was closed, he would have to keep on pretending like he didn’t feel as though he was going to throw up or pass out or maybe some combo that’d leave him drowning and choking on his own bile. 

He snorted at such an uncomfortable thought, though perhaps it wasn’t the thought that was so uncomfortable but, instead, the fact that this was certainly not the first time it had popped into his head. 

Moonbeams and pink neon lights slipped softly in through the open slit in his curtains, reflecting off of the twinkling crystal snowflakes and swirling, intricately patterned frost that curled like gentle, beckoning fingers on his windowpane. It spilled over the floor in a thin line, sending dancing patterns across his cold, hardwood flooring, illuminating the side of his face when he stepped into the beams of different lights. 

Miyoshi, though it wasn’t nearly as big or exciting as Tokyo or Osaka, had this strange charm in the night. It wasn’t exactly bustling with activity, sure, but signs of life could be seen in each and every crack and crevice. Lingering and loitering on every street, sharing cigarettes and pipes filled with marijuana on every sidewalk, huddling closer and closer for warmth beneath every overhang, chattering sweetly and quietly and intimately at every bus stop. A few bars were open late into the night, a few others open all night, and a few more open _only_ at night, each one cozy and full of people who were tired and strangely sympathetic and in need of something that would warm their stomachs and dull their minds.

Zenigata let out a sigh deep from within the confines of his ribs, one that rattled around in his throat for a moment before finally releasing through cracked, parted lips as, with weak legs, he climbed slowly into bed. The springs creaked in protest beneath his knees and, once again, the sheets felt somehow softer than they had before, fresher, warmer, even. There was still static from the washing machine making the gentlest crackling sounds as his clothes and hair connected to the fabric, and it shocked him a few times on the very tips of his fingers as he, exhausted, flopped down on top of the mattress without a second thought. 

Immediately, the very moment his head hit the pillow, he nuzzled in, trying to sink as deep into the softness as he could, grateful for anything at all that provided _some_ sort of support for his aching joints as he pawed absently for the second pillow right next to his own, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the bed, probably mere seconds away from slipping and falling to the floor with a dull _thump._

He gripped it gently, eyelids already heavy, closing softly while he pulled the pillow closer, pushing it to his chest and holding it as though his very life depended on it, a habit he had taken to ever since he started the job. There was an odd comfort in holding something, wrapping his arms around it and squeezing, burying his face in it, letting himself sink as he fell asleep. Perhaps it was loneliness that drove him to be a particularly cuddly sleeper, though he pretended to ignore this (obviously correct) theory and instead blamed it on a mixture of restless leg syndrome and a jungle-juice like amalgamation of childhood trauma. Which, truth be told, probably contributed to it a hell of a lot more than he gave it credit for. 

He turned, mattress springs creaking beneath him, eyes squinting for a moment or two as he faced the window and adjusted to the dull, artificial light from the buildings seeping through it. 

To be honest, although he always considered himself to be a more rural man, he adored the city. The rush of cars below on the streets, honking occasionally, the rumble of the train on its tracks, the constant, near-silent, _thump thump thump_ of bass from some distant club that he didn’t quite notice in the moment, but if it were to stop, he could almost _immediately_ tell. He had grown to love it, especially now when he felt as though if he were faced with silence, he would drown in the emptiness that filled his belly and made his teeth feel wrong in his mouth. 

He regulated his breathing, though it was a lot harder now that his nostrils were clogged up and he had to sniffle and snort every five seconds in vain attempts to clear them. Maybe he should get up, try and steam his face with boiling water, or take another shower, this one hotter, to clear his sinuses. 

However, the room was cold, and the blankets he had burrowed underneath were warm, and the light caressing his face was so comforting and familiar he couldn’t bear to leave it. His apartment was shabby, yeah-- it was poorly insulated and the heater barely ever worked and it was small and empty and dark-- but hell, at least it was _there._ It was safe and it was constant, and he both hated it down to its very foundation and loved it as though it was really, truly a home. 

Though, of course, technically, it _was_ a home. I mean, he lived there, didn’t he? He cooked there (sometimes) and cleaned there (whenever he could, which was rare) and slept there (not for long periods of time) and spent (a little bit of) time there. So, by the standard definition, it counted as a home. Even if it didn’t feel like one all the time. Even if it felt completely empty while he was inside of it. Even if the walls felt bigger despite it being on the petit side. Even if he hated his very guts while he lay in its shitty twin-sized bed. It was something of a home, and it was the best he would ever be able to do, and he would just have to live with that. 

Zenigata sighed through his chattering teeth, curling around the pillow he held and hoping that sleep would come easy to him tonight. Sometimes it didn’t, sometimes it took hours upon hours of restless tossing and useless turning for him to finally fall into a feverish, somewhat-conscious state of slumber, but perhaps, since he was sick, he would just be out like a light ‘til his alarm clock woke him up again. 

He shut his eyes, immediately relieved when he realized that his body was already falling limp, feeling heavy and weak as his limbs sunk deep into the mattress. It was a cheap old thing, sure, but it was as soft as it needed to be. Even though he could feel the springs through it, even though sometimes the poked roughly and uncomfortably at him, even that portion just at his hip where they dug into his flesh and made little indents and--

that was not his mattress spring. 

Suddenly, Zenigata was a lot more awake than he had been earlier, sitting up with owlish, blinking eyes as he leaned over to turn on the lamp sitting on his bedside table before leaning forward to reach down. He shuffled around for a little bit, squirming and rolling his hips to try and decipher where exactly the poking was coming from, glancing under the blanket before realizing that it was a little bit too dark for that, even with the lamp on. So, while scooting to and fro, he leaned in as far as he could, furrowing his brow as his hands roamed the bed, poking and prodding at different areas, running his fingers along the sheets, trying to get the object to poke him again so he could pinpoint its exact location. Truthfully, he should have just gotten up, but there was no way in hell he was putting his bare feet on that icy cold floor after he was covered up, so this would have to do. 

His fingers brushed over something hard and foreign-- eureka!-- and if he moved just a little bit more to the left… and prodded his finger like _so…_

“Gotcha!” He exclaimed in an embarrassingly sniffly voice to nobody in particular as he pulled out whatever invader had decided to join him in bed, holding it up to the light, gaze running over it once, twice, and then a third time before he finally processed that he had been lying on… a watch. And _definitely_ not his watch, either. 

It was a Rolex, so yeah, he most certainly didn’t buy it. And nobody would’ve ever given him one. This was somebody else’s for sure. 

The straps were a cool, steely silver, the hands golden as well as the rim, which framed itself gorgeously around a deep, ocean-blue face that reflected the lamplight spectacularly, warmth pouring over the expensive, fine details of the watch. A minuscule diamond glittered away right at the very center, the Rolex logo glowing just beneath it in thin, golden print, written so delicately and so meticulously that it was almost as mesmerizing as the gentle, cool weight pressing against warm skin.

It was ticking away beneath the pad of Zenigata’s thumb, and he could almost _feel_ the impact of each golden _tok… tok… tok…_ as the night crept further and further into 11 PM. Truly, it was beautifully made, and judging from the little, hidden details (like spaces that looked as though they could be opened up and a few slick, dazzling sapphires along the edges) it was probably custom-made. The amount of money it must’ve cost almost made the inspector dizzy, and guilt rose in his throat as he realized that he should definitely not be holding such an intricate piece of finery in his dirty hands. 

Quickly, as though holding searing embers, he placed the watch delicately atop his nightstand and flicked the light back off, the entire room being swallowed up in darkness once more as he slowed his breathing, though he hadn’t known it had sped up in the first place. He felt as though he recognized it, but he couldn’t be sure from where. 

Images of a thin, bony wrist flashed across his mind, covered in hair and small, white scars from a particularly rough line of work and, most importantly, a breathtakingly extravagant watch, something that only _this_ person would wear, something that could only belong to… belong to… 

Zenigata squeezed his eyes shut, feeling queasy as he pulled the comforter up to his chin. He would just have to ask around at work tomorrow. Surely, he would find the owner then. Surely it couldn’t be who he thought it was.

He rolled away from his nightstand, feeling his stomach churn and his bones weigh heavy in his skin, head swimming, though he couldn’t tell if it was from his worsening physical state or peaking anxiety. Behind him, it was almost as though he could feel the watch’s presence, so he squeezed his eyes shut, scrunching up his face momentarily before letting it relax, hoping to distract himself from his marrow-deep discomfort. He _had_ to sleep tonight, he reasoned silently with himself; he couldn’t afford to be sleep deprived in the morning, not when he already felt this awful, not when he could barely stand to keep his eyes open during the day. 

The watch belonged to one of his co-workers. That was all. A co-worker. A _co-worker._ He had probably accidentally taken it home one night, maybe it slipped into his bag or jacket or pocket, maybe he put it on mistaking it for his own (somehow), maybe he had brought it home to return it the next day for somebody had left it, and he had just forgotten about it. It couldn’t possibly be Lupin’s, because that would mean that Lupin had been inside of his apartment, and that certainly wasn’t right. He had only seen Lupin in passing, bumping into him at random moments, seeing those big eyes get even bigger as his gaze locked with the inspector’s, cheeks so flushed from the cold, teeth chattering gently, fingers shaking-- 

Zenigata groaned, rubbing his eyes hard enough to make him see stars. He should really just focus on sleep right now and nothing… else. He had to be up early in the morning. 

_Early,_ thought Zenigata bitterly as he clocked into work, shuffling past several chipper morning people that told him how sick and tired he looked, _was an understatement._

The guy had been awake ‘til some ungodly hour of the morning, blinking in and out of consciousness, too nervous about that horrible watch on his nightstand to get any sort of sleep at all. When his alarm went blaring away, he was already awake and smacked the top of it to silence its incessant beeping with just about as much enthusiasm as a corpse. He had reached a new level of tired, the kind where if you blinked for .05 seconds too long, you’d be out like a light for the rest of the day, but at the same time, if you purposefully let your eyelids fall on their own, you’d be stuck awake and jittery. It was a painstaking limbo, one that the inspector quite often found himself dancing beneath, dangerously close to falling but still _just_ making it enough to push through. 

He was used to it, of course; he had lived a great majority of his life in this limbo, and it was nothing new to him. But good _God,_ something about forcing yourself to shuffle into a job that you were beginning to hate and sit at a creaky desk chair that was on the verge of breaking all while being sick could really ruin a man in the span of a few seconds. 

And _oh,_ how ruined he was as he sat slumped at his desk, eyes glazed over, hazy and hollow as he stared with little interest at a paper he swore he had read a million times before. Something about the Barnett couple being spotted near HQ, something about them sneaking off into an abandoned warehouse just twenty-odd miles outside of the city’s limits. 

To be honest, that in itself was fairly exciting news, and if the inspector hadn’t seen the exact same article for three days in a row, maybe he would have a shred of hope that this God-awful case would be closed soon. However, that building had recently been raided brick by brick and, of course, the results showed gut-wrenchingly negative. No Phillip, no Gertrude, no stolen riches. 

He reached into his pocket, thumbing over the extravagant watch he had found the night before, taking a moment to think of all of the people he knew that could possibly own such a thing. When none came to mind, he began to worry at his lower lip, brow furrowing. Surely _somebody,_ right? Some of his co-workers made a pretty good living, and their partners often managed to make even better, so maybe he would be lucky and it would belong to somebody from the forensics department or the sweet little receptionist down at the front. 

Right now, though, not everybody was in. It was around five in the morning _(Lord_ have mercy) and the only people who were up and at ‘em were the poor souls working in the research department, from long-time, professional information veterans to exhausted inspectors who got pushed away from the meat of the case to be thrown on the backburner. 

He sighed, leaning into his desk, slowly inching his forehead closer and closer to the wooden surface before it thumped softly against the solid oak as the ache in his head shrieked at him to get away from those unbearable fluorescent lights as they hummed endlessly above. Normally, such a sound was merely part of the office drone, the one that he had tuned out years and years ago, the one that had even become somewhat of a comfort to him during late nights where he’d find himself all alone. Now, however, the constant buzz was a different tune. Like nails on a chalkboard, like squeaking cotton between your teeth, like scraping your fingers against concrete by accident. 

It was practically unbearable, and for a few moments, Zenigata considered getting up to have his second Ibuprofen of the day, realizing that _one_ of the small pills just wasn’t going to make the cut. 

“Hey,” 

The sound of a deep voice accompanied by the tell-tale _thump_ of several thick stacks of paper landed atop Zenigata’s desk just near his throbbing head, and he groaned in reply. Slowly, he turned his face on his desk, cheek smooshing against the wood so that his lips pursed awkwardly and his right eye closed. 

Before him stood a tall, relatively thin man, chestnut hair clipped back sloppily with several bobby pins. He shoved his hands in his pockets, cocking his head and reaching out with one foot to kick Zenigata’s rolly chair. 

“Hoshino,” Zenigata mumbled, referring to his visitor, a co-worker he had known for years. He worked with the K9 unit, training several ferocious dogs to sniff and bite and whatever else, and was often found in the bar right across the street as a regular. “what brings you here? Surely that isn’t all for me,” the inspector frowned, slowly straightening his back, eyeing the enormous amount of paperwork that had just recently been dumped rather unceremoniously atop his desk. 

“Sadly, no,” Hoshino replied, pulling out the empty chair catty-corner to Zenigata’s, sitting at the unoccupied desk as though he had been working in that same spot his whole life. “this is mine. The commissioner temporarily removed me from my dogs to work on this case,” 

Zenigata frowned, pushing the enormous workload over to the man adjacent to him, who sighed before helping him move the stacks along. “You don’t mean the Barnett case, do you?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, hearing the back of it creak loudly as he crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowing.

“Yeah, I do. The stakes just raised a hell of a lot more than they have been-- didn’t you hear?” Hoshino blinked, pawing at his pocket, searching for something. When Zenigata shook his head, he didn’t respond immediately, still poking around at his pants before, finally, sliding back in his chair to help him push out a carton of cigarettes. It wasn’t a brand that the inspector recognized-- bulky, with a blue stripe across the middle and a rather American sounding name-- but he didn’t quite care, for when he was offered one, he took it rather enthusiastically.

Hoshino began to prod and paw around the desk in front of him, but continued, cigarette loose between his lips, moving with each and every subtle breath he took. “Well, as it turns out, those two are a lot crazier than we thought they were,” 

“How do you mean?” Zenigata asked, face firm and set. 

“Well, you see, th--” Hoshino paused. “got a light?” He turned to Zenigata, holding out a calloused, expectant hand, and the inspector gladly reached into his own pocket to pull forth a cheap, gas station lighter, bright orange and plastic, and passed it to the man in front of him. “Thanks. Anywho, turns out the gal-- what was her name? Gerty?” 

“Close enough,”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever her name is, she said she planted a bomb in the station just on the other side of town,” Hoshino paused, inhaling on his cigarette as he lit it, holding the smoke in for a moment or two as he let it fill his lungs. Finally, it bled from his nose in mesmerizing wisps, framing his face and getting caught momentarily in his messy hair. He passed Zenigata’s lighter back to him before continuing. “they didn’t believe her at first, thought it was just something to get a rise out of them. But, since it _was_ a bomb threat, it’s protocol to inspect and search the building. You know, just in case,”

“Right,” 

“Yeah. So, they searched, uh-huh? And, obviously, just like everybody expected, there was nothing. Not in the bathroom stalls or the desks or the vents. But then, somebody noticed a loose panel in the ceiling just above the water cooler in the break room. So, they checked it-- and you know what they found?” 

Zenigata grimaced, sucking the tip of his cigarette as he inhaled, putting the lighter back into his pocket and letting the smoke billow rather gracelessly from his lips. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” 

“I wish I was, man. Anyways, the commissioner is saying that they’re getting too dangerous, and he’s calling for anybody with a _smidge_ of experience in research to come and get to work in the office. Sort of an all hands on deck type situation,” Hoshino shook his head, the cherry of his cigarette following in a dull glow as he did so, his arms crossed, expression grim and tired. “y’know, I’m a little surprised, Zenigata, I thought you would be with Brandy and her-- _your_ team,” 

The inspector scoffed, beginning to rifle through his share of articles (of course, now that he looked, the top one _did_ say something about a bombing on Gertrude’s behalf), case files, and documents on the married couple. “You would think, yeah,”

“That’s rough. I wonder why they cut you off?”

“Beats me. But, you know, I’ve come to learn that I don’t care. The sooner we finish this God-forsaken case, the sooner I can get back to Lupin,”

“Miss him, huh?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Zenigata barked, praying that his cheeks didn’t look as hot as they felt as Hoshino giggled behind his hand. “you know I hate that guy,” 

“That’s not what people are saying, Zeni,” 

The inspector rolled his eyes, reaching over to swat the K9 trainer, who only leaned away and avoided the oncoming hand with ease. 

“If you don’t get so defensive about it, people will stop spreading those rumors,” Hoshino shrugged, plucking his cigarette from between his lips to hold it between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it lazily. 

“I don’t know why they started in the first place,” Zenigata sighed, taking another drag of his cigarette, adoring the heat of it as it filled every crack in his tired bones before being released through his nostrils. 

“Because y--”

“I didn’t ask you to explain, genius,” and before Hoshino could open his mouth and say something about the topic again (because Zenigata knew damn well that he would), the inspector reached into his pocket to bring forth the expensive Rolex watch he had accidentally rolled on the night before, wordlessly holding it out for the other man to take a glance at. And glance he did, eyes widening slowly, processing the expensive object that had just been held out in front of him. 

“Shit! Zenigata, they’re paying you _that_ much?” He asked immediately, slamming his hands loudly against the desk. A few desk clumps over, a very concerned woman looked over but was waved off by Zenigata’s co-worker. “How the hell did you even--?” 

“It isn’t mine,” Zenigata sighed, frowning. “and judging from your reaction, it isn’t yours, either,” 

“Hell, if I weren’t a cop I’d definitely say it was. , Hey actually-- you know what, it is! That’s my watch,” 

“You’re a real prick, you know that?” 

“Better than anybody else. Now gimme, that’ll pay for my daughter’s college,”

“Isn’t she like, ten?” 

“Yeah,” Hoshino rolled his eyes. “but she’ll go to college one day, won’t she? God, man, where’d you even find that? You should cash it in, that’s worth three of your paychecks,” 

“Probably more,” Zenigata snorted. “anyway, it was in my apartment, but I haven’t had anybody over in… in _months._ And besides, I don’t know anybody this rich.”

“No kiddin’. Geez, it looks custom made, too! Those staps don’t look adjustable, I bet you anything they’ll only fit on one wrist,” 

“Yeah, but whose?” 

“I don’t know, but definitely not yours. Or mine, to be frank. Look how small it is,”

“Huh,” Zenigata frowned, looking down at the watch with mild interest. “yeah, I guess you’re right. Think I should just drop it in the lost and found box and call it a day?” The inspector asked, looking over the intricate, gleaming surface. 

“Hell no! You think these people are gonna pass up the opportunity for a free Rolex?” 

“Just a suggestion,”

“A shit one,” 

“God, you really have it out for me today, huh?” 

“‘Course I do. Maybe if someone’s an ass to you then you’ll finally go home,” Hoshino’s expression took a turn for the semi-serious as he leaned back in his chair, fishhook caught in his left eyebrow, a small frown painting itself onto his thin lips. Expectantly, as though he was waiting for something to happen, waiting for Zenigata to say or do something, he tapped his toe against the floor as he attempted to force eye contact on the inspector who, determined not to give in, stared down at his desk. “Zenigata, you look awful. We’ve got it covered over here, you aren’t gonna be much use to us if you’re sick,” 

“I’m _not,”_ Zenigata retorted, almost snapping at a very unamused Hoshino, whose eyebrow raised even further if that was even possible. When he didn’t reply after a beat too long, the inspector grew anxious. “I’m not. I’m not sick, really, it’s just the changing of the seasons. You know, the transition from fall to winter,”

“Takeda says you’ve been sneezing and coughing up a storm. Plus, there is no way in hell I’m gonna believe you’re even a _little_ bit healthy with a mug like that,”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You said I was sick, not ugly,” 

“Cracked lips, dry cheeks, heavy bags, and the darkest circles I’ve ever seen? Not to mention you’ve lost a bit of weight, I doubt you’re eating anything other than the little vending machine treats your concerned co-workers bring you,” the man reached out, extending a finger and poking Zenigata hard in the gut. Which, admittedly, had gotten significantly smaller over the past few months of working himself to the bone and eating practically nothing to fuel this work. “you won’t be able to do any work like this. You need to go home and get some rest, if not for your sake, then maybe for everybody else’s,” 

“I already told you that I was fine, Hoshino. You’re just overly nosy today, and, might I add, a smidge judgemental. What if I _wanted_ to lose weight, hm? Just because I’m losing a bit of fluff doesn’t mean I’m malnourished, I’m not one of your dogs,” 

“Okay, but you’re still malnourished. I’ve never seen a healthy person look like they were just dug out of a graveyard,” Hoshino rolled his eyes, cigarette back between his lips, gnawing at the filter as he so often did. 

“You’re insufferable,” Zenigata sighed, scooting himself closer to his desk, hunching over an article that was sitting innocently atop it, pocketing the watch as he did so. “I’m going to get to work now. And you’re _also_ going to get to work, and you won’t bug me about this quote-unquote _sickness_ I have,” the inspector said, putting as much authority as he could in his voice, though it was fairly difficult when it was hoarse and every word scratched like barbed wire against the raw inside of his throat. 

“Yeah, sure, alright, whatever you say, plague rat,” 

“Put a muzzle on it, dog boy,” Zenigata murmured, blindly patting over at the left side of his desk in search of his red ink pen as he glanced through the article in front of him, taking in as much information as he could while simultaneously trying his best not to pass out from the dizzy spell that was quickly approaching him. 

From his peripheral, he caught a glimpse of Hoshino gazing at him, and his expression was either one of worry or deep contempt for the inspector. However, he couldn’t care less, and besides, soon, his peripheral would no longer be available to him, as everything out of the corners of his eyes began to grow fuzzy and black. Maybe he _was_ a little sick after all, but that would have to wait. Right now, he had to focus on catching these two messy goons so that he could return to his _own_ messy goon. 

That Godforsaken analog clock sitting mockingly behind Zenigata _tick tick tick_ ed away as the sun inched closer and closer to the horizon, its light muted by the dark grey clouds swelling overhead, snow falling much faster than it had been only an hour before. Forecasts were saying it was going to be a “doozy” and something to “batten down the hatches” for, whatever the hell either of those things meant. All Zenigata knew was that it was going to be a real pain in the ass trying to drive home with the extra slick on the road, and any winds and freezing cold temperatures that came along with it would just add to the extreme discomfort. 

Already, three people had clocked out early despite the Barnett case being a top priority, and the commissioner promised to scold them next time before gently sending them away and telling them to stay hunkered down with their children to prepare for the heavier snowfall. One of those included Hoshino, who left the inspector with an apologetic look and an extra stack of papers to pick up the slack on, and with this new addition, Zeniagata quickly realized that he would almost definitely be sleeping in the office tonight. 

He yawned, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, which blurred as his mind blanked momentarily. The day was coming to a close, and soon overtime hours would begin, lights flicking off and desklamps coming on, silence except for the occasional cough or sneeze from those who worked later hours as pencils and pens scribbled across the surfaces of articles that practically had the whole team running in circles, chasing their tails like puppies that didn’t quite understand the concept of their own bodies. 

Exhaling sharply through his nostrils, Zenigata squared his shoulders and furrowed his brow, trying to concentrate on a sentence he had been stuck on for about fifteen minutes too long. He simply wasn’t processing it, wasn’t completely getting it, and the fact that he was now trembling with cold certainly didn’t help him understand. It was damn near _impossible_ to focus, even as he underlined and highlighted and circled that damned sentence over and over, murmuring each word beneath his breath, hunching close to his desk and coming nose to nose with the text. 

He chewed on his lower lip absently, knowing that by now, it was probably raw and close to bleeding, though he didn’t care in the slightest. This case had dragged on for far too long now, and if it didn’t wrap up soon, he felt absolutely certain that he was going to go against the commissioner’s orders and simply take matters into his own hands. He figured that if he got into any sort of trouble in doing that, at _least_ he would be back on Lupin’s case. 

Zenigata blinked, drawing back from his desk, feeling a hot, slick guilt drop into the pit of his stomach like a ball of tar, melting his insides, making him queasy with shame. He despised how hyperfocused he was on the thief and his actions, despised how he felt when he wasn’t around. Despised how he felt when he _was_ around. Lupin, all in all, was just bad news, and Zenigata knew this damn well. 

Lupin, however, was also very magnetic. Very charming, charismatic, he drew people to him with the curl of his lip and lilt in his tone as his playful eyes searched for something extravagant and deliciously expensive to tuck away with thin, nimble fingers into his beloved jacket. He would whisper close to your ear with excitement spilling from his hushed tone and he would put a hand on your lower back to lead you further away so that you wouldn’t see whatever atrocity he was bound to commit and good God he would just _touch,_ always one to be rather handsy, brushing knuckles and shoulders, bumping hips and ankles together as he tidied loose strands of hair from your face.

Undercover, Zenigata had felt more than heard the way the thief’s voice would practically _purr_ with delight as he discussed whatever crown jewel was being shown off at whatever party the inspector’s alias attended. He would look hungrily at his prize, and Zenigata, still hidden away behind latex and spirit gum and makeup, would simply stare at the raw desire he showed for his target. 

On lonely nights, ones where Zenigata would be curled up on a tiny hotel bed or driving alone in a busted-to-hell cop car or lying flat on his back staring up at his empty apartment ceiling and dreading the silence that came from the unoccupied rooms, he allowed his thoughts to drift and wonder just how it would feel to be looked at like that. How it would feel to be wanted, _craved,_ even, stared at with such pure, ravenous intent. 

Needed.

But, of course, Zenigata was difficult and hated himself right down to his guts, so he had already realized long ago that it couldn’t be just _anybody_ who looked so rapaciously at him. It had to be Lupin, and nobody else. It always had to be Lupin. 

Zenigata sighed heavily, placing both arms atop his desk before falling heavily into them, groaning the whole way down as he realized that he wouldn’t ever get any work done if his stupid feelings continued to get in the way. Why were they even _there?_ The hell was the point of them? To make his job harder? To make his life hell? And those rumors, good God those damned _rumors--_ they made the whole ordeal twenty times harder. Because now, no matter what, he couldn’t show any compassion for the thief at all without being accused of doing the most foolish thing a police officer could ever do and falling for the enemy. 

Which, to be fair, was _exactly_ what he was doing, especially now since he was feverish and the liquid cold medicine that tasted like motor oil with a hint of a hint of cherry flavoring gave him strange dreams that would often poke right around in his heart. It was awkward and, to be honest, immensely invasive even though it was his brain doing to snooping. 

The worst part about it was how unbelievably vivid a few of these cold-medicine induced dreams could be. One, in particular, woke Zenigata with a cold sweat, hands shaking violently, chest rising and falling as though he had been deprived of air the entirety of the night. 

He hadn’t exactly been _dreaming,_ per se, but he… he felt it. He felt it happening. Felt the way Lupin’s hands brushed over his neck, how they gently picked up the blanket that had been strewn haphazardly atop the inspector in order to drag it upward, and how, finally, they cupped his cheek. And then, the part that really irked him, the part that he couldn’t stop thinking about, was the feeling of lips against his forehead. 

Soft, supple, subtle. Just this real delicate press, barely even a kiss. Just borrowed warmth, really, that’s all it felt like. 

But it had been the most realistic of all of the poor inspectors fever-dreams, and when he woke up, shaking and sick to his stomach (either from having a nasty fever or from the idea that maybe, just _maybe,_ Lupin could feel something for him, too), he could still feel the thief’s lips oh so sweetly against his forehead. 

He wished he had never thought of something so stupid, and at the same time, wished that he could have that dream each and every night. At least until he felt better. At least until this was all over. 

Zenigata lifted his head back up, staring blankly at the desk before him, eyes falling in and out of focus while he tried to pretend that he was at home, cozy and warm in pyjamas and, let’s be honest, a cup of instant ramen noodles to warm his aching throat. He traced that Godforsaken line that he was unable to concentrate on with his finger, paper rough against the pad of his skin, ink from his many annotations smudging ever so slightly, messy and blotting out a few characters from a few words in a few sentences. It was evening, now, and the sun had disappeared completely, snow falling like rain outside, quick and white and blurring the lights of the bars and houses and apartment buildings. 

Once again, Zenigata’s head began to pulse, a dull thrum that he could feel right in his skull, pounding like a drum, constant and painful.

That was it. 

He was clocking out for the day. 

He had done his job, he had played his part; there was no new evidence that he could find, nothing to analyze, nothing to find hidden meanings to. The Barnetts were just a pair of nutcases with a lighter, and it was clear that none of their actions had patterns or, to be honest, _reasons._ It seemed to Zenigata that they were just doing it for fun, getting a ride out of life, living in the spotlight, day by day, heist by heist. They were thrill chasers, addicted to the cheap highs they got from temporary adrenaline rushes. The kind of small fry that Zenigata could easily deal with on his own if the commissioner would just _let him._

But, of course, he was pushed away from the case, put into some useless busy-work job, and now, expected to work deep into the night and not complain. But he was tired and he was sick and he was catching feelings for a _thief,_ dammit, so just this once, he was going to go home before three in the morning. 

He pushed away from his desk, grunting softly as his knees popped and back cracked, hip aching from the chill of the air-- he really was getting old, wasn’t he?-- and began to gather up his coat from the backrest of his shitty office chair, looking around for his hat which he swore he put… _somewhere._

Shouldering into his coat, the fabric relievingly warm against his skin, he spotted the tan, tattered old hat sitting atop Hoshino’s unoccupied desk, and he stretched across his own to reach it, picking it up by the rim between two careful fingers and bringing it back to rest atop his head. It fit snugly, as usual, pressing his hair down, a loose curl (one that he simply couldn’t brush down) coming to rest against his forehead, framing a small, fading freckle near his hairline. 

He pushed his chair into his desk, feeling exhaustion weigh heavier and heavier on his bones as he leaned forward one more time to click off his desk lamp, fingers fiddling with the switch a little bit before he managed to turn it off. Finally, he was striding away from his little desk cluster, turning on his heel and tossing his hand absently in the air, waving goodbye to the two other people working excruciatingly late. 

“G’night, everybody, get home safe,” he called, and one of the two, a woman with box braids and summery orange eyeshadow turned to him. 

“Leaving, Inspector?” She asked, her voice soft and sleepy as she lifted a cardigan-clad arm to wave back.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m gonna try and beat the snow before it gets any higher,” he lied, not willing to explain that, not only was he feeling sick, but his heart was aching for someone who was supposed to be his enemy. All of Interpol’s enemy, as a matter of fact. 

“Well, good luck with that. Be safe, alright?” 

“I will! Don’t stay in too late, try and get some rest soon,” he smiled, and she returned the gesture, grinning exhaustedly and flashing him a thumbs up, which he replicated in turn before turning to push open the dark-blue door separating the office from the hallway leading to the elevator. 

He exited with a long, drawn-out sigh, clicking the door shut by leaning against it, head thumping it when he tossed it back in pure, unfiltered fatigue. He _needed_ to get home, needed to get some rest, just needed-- dare he even _think_ it?-- a fucking _break._

He had been working nonstop overtime for ages now, not even getting paid for everything he had done half the time, tirelessly pouring over files and notes and big, manilla folders of pages upon pages of information that didn’t make any sense and didn’t lead him anywhere at all. It was frustrating, almost, to keep running around in circles; all of ICPO was curled ‘round the Barnetts’ little fingers, and those two British thieves damn well _knew_ it. They knew their impact, knew how much trouble they were causing, and they basked in it. They adored the attention, the fuss, the chase. 

Zenigata yawned, closing his eyes as he clacked down the hallway, footfalls echoing across the empty walls and bouncing back to his ears. He hadn’t even realized those walls were so echo-prone, in fact, for now, it almost sounded as though there were two steps of feet, clicking away across the hallway, a constant, almost ominous sound. 

However, the inspector realized that, most likely, it was his mind playing tricks on him. He was tired and queasy and perhaps the cold medicine he had taken the night before to help him sleep hadn’t quite worn off yet, so who could blame him if he was a little bit out of it? The man had been running on a no-sleep no-food schedule, of course, he was going to hear four shoes running down the hallway. Anybody _this_ disoriented would certainly--

wait, running? 

Zenigata stopped in his tracks, blinking. He focused hard, listening to the quiet around him, honing in on whatever sound he could, and sure enough, there it was. The tell-tale sound of somebody in high-heels running as fast as they could without tripping and falling. It was a feat he sure as hell couldn’t pull off. 

“Inspector! Inspector Zenigata, wait!” Someone shouted, and this time, he turned around, eyes wide, mouth froze in a small “o” as he stared down the dimly lit hallway.

The fluorescent lights had been turned off except for a few near every other door to help conserve energy when there were fewer people in the building, and several of them didn’t work. That being said, there was plenty of flickering and flashing, casting eerie shadows across the white tile floors and light blue walls. 

“Inspector Zenigata, don’t leave yet! Wait! Wait up!” Came the voice again, closer this time, and sprinting ‘round the corner was--

“Ms. Takeda?!” Zenigata blinked as he saw the woman running towards him as fast as she could while wearing three-inch pumps. Well, maybe not running; it was more speedwalking than anything. 

“I’m so glad I caught up! I heard that you were leaving early, and well--!” She huffed, tripping. Zenigata gasped, holding out his arms instinctively though she was nowhere near him, walking forward several paces to try and meet her halfway. 

At last, after giving a frustrated look down at her shoes, she awkwardly leaned down to pry one off of her foot, doing a little one-legged hop as she wiggled free of the other one, hooking her index and middle finger beneath each back of the shoe and holding them loosely as she ran towards a very confused, very concerned Zenigata. 

“Ms. Takeda! What’s wrong? You’re not hurt, are you? Did something happen? Do you need help--”

“Can it!” She ordered, and can it he did as they finally met. He stopped as she came closer… and closer and closer and closer until, finally, she passed him. “Is your car in the parking lot? Because we’ve got to _go,_ somebody found the Barnett couple!” 

_“What!”_ He yipped, scrambling to turn and catch up to her as she broke out in a full-blown sprint, slipping and sliding the entire way, clearly struggling to keep her balance in her thin, black tights. “You mean they…?!” 

“Yes! Someone finally caught up to them, and they need as much help as they can get! Right now there are only four officers on the scene, and Brandy and your squad are on the way, but they’re too far! We’re closest, and, well, I just figured you should probably head over!” 

“Why me?” 

“Because you’re the only one with any _real_ experience arresting people in this building at this moment! Everybody else is best in forensics or research, and we kind of need your er, Lupin catching skills!” 

Zenigata scoffed at this, but it was mostly to hide the tint of red fading into his cheeks. Did they really need him over there? Did they really _want_ him? 

When Ms. Takeda scurried past the elevator, Zenigata almost stopped in his tracks, confused. “Why aren’t you--?” He asked, not needing to finish the statement. Despite his curiosity, though, he followed her to the stairs, right behind her as she shoved the door open with her side and began to hastily, but carefully, make her way down the rubber-coated steps. 

“That elevator doesn’t work! Or, well, it does, but it can be finicky! Don’t you remember? We’ve gotten stuck at least three times in there _this_ week!” She replied, a little out of breath as she held tight to the railing. Zenigata didn’t say another word, though, deciding that she probably knew what she was doing, and instead simply followed along, eager to actually matter in a case once more. 

The roads were icy and difficult to navigate, light spilling off of lamps and buildings and traffic stops, reflecting off of the slick surface of the concrete as he sped down the road, Ms. Takeda in the passenger seat and desperately trying to put the siren atop the inspector’s car without being blown out of the window like a piece of paper. 

“Do you even know where you’re going?!” She shrieked through the wind, popping her head in for a moment before going right back out. Zenigata heard several thumps atop the roof, one, then two, then three, then all the way up to five until, finally-- “shit! Got it! Okay,” 

Zenigata glanced over as the woman slid back into place, quickly pulling her seatbelt over her chest and buckling in as the sirens began to wail so that the cars in front of them would know that there was a price to pay if they dared get in the inspector’s way. 

“I don’t know where I’m going, no! That’s why you came!” He replied, equally as loud, though the window was closed and the icy wind was no longer ripping through his ears and forcing him to go partially deaf.

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “Right!” 

“Yeah, I know!”

“No, Inspector! _Right,_ right!” 

“I know I’m right--” 

“For God’s sake, take a right! Here! _Now!”_ Ms. Takeda screeched, anxiety bubbling up in her voice as they nearly passed the turn they were supposed to take. Thinking quickly, thinking desperately, Zenigata leaned all of his weight into the wheel as he swerved, his entire body seeming to encourage the vehicle to make the somewhat illegal and sloppy turn. 

Poor Ms. Takeda slammed into the window with a grunt (quickly exclaiming that she was fine, afterward) as Zengiata sped on, foot pressing hard into the gas, knuckles paling considerably as he gripped the steering wheel with enough force to make a vein pop. Determination, hot and sickening, was creeping up his throat, threatening to make his head spin as he drove. He _couldn’t_ let them slip away, not now. He had to see that they were being locked up, had to go help those four others put them behind bars where they belonged. He couldn’t stay on this case any longer. Couldn’t bear it, sure that he had worked far too hard and far too long on something that didn’t even concern him. 

It stripped him of his squad and made him look foolish and useless as he sat back and circled and highlighted and annotated stupid, useless pages of information, some fake some not, trying to figure out something, anything, _anything at all_ that would close this stupid fucking case. It was exhausting and it was stressful and, unlike chasing Lupin, it wasn’t even fun. There was no excitement, no strange satisfaction when he finally managed to clamp his cuffs around those tiny wrists, no strange satisfaction when those same tiny wrists slipped away and sped off with a wink and a blown kiss, one that often rendered poor Zenigata useless for a few moments before, joyfully, he sped after the thief, feigning anger and frustration.

Zenigata swerved left when he was told to in a frantic, shrill yelp, Ms. Takeda gripping his shoulder hard as he did so, panic filling both of their eyes to the brim. He slammed his foot down hard on the brakes when ice made it difficult to turn, and the inspector skidded across the road, drifting for a moment or two before his tires finally managed to find traction once more. The engine revved, loud and strained, and the trusty, beaten little car launched them forward, damn near crashing into a small, tin trashcan that was sitting outside of an apartment building. With yet another uncalculated yank to the wheel, haphazardly skidding down the street at an awkwardly perpendicular angle, he managed to narrowly avoid it, though it took him quite a while to regain control of his car. With intense effort and another slam on the brakes, he turned back forward, apologizing hastily to his passenger to who was holding on tight to her seat, screaming about how he needed to be more careful the entire time. Finally, straightened out, eyes locked ahead of him, he sped on, not caring as the speedometer slowly crept further and further into heavily illegal territories. They were going to make it. They had to. 

Zenigata knew that his reasoning behind wanting to wrap up the Barnett case was selfish. He knew that better than anybody else did, and he was ashamed of it. But he couldn’t help how he felt, couldn’t help how he ached to see the thief once more, longed for his playful presence, for his quips and his wit and his laugh and his eyes and his hands and every single bit of him that Zenigata realized he found so beautiful. He was captivated by Lupin, enthralled by him, enchanted, even, but he supposed that that was just what the thief _did._ He had that effect on people. He was gorgeous and he was mysterious and interesting and fun, and maybe Zenigata was a fool, maybe he was simply falling for one of Lupin’s classic traps-- in fact, he _knew_ he was-- but love made you do stupid, stupid things didn’t it? 

Perhaps that was the point about love, Zenigata thought as he ran a red light while Ms. Takeda kept desperately slapping his shoulders and telling him to slow down or else _he’d_ get arrested. It made you do stupid, stupid, _stupid_ things even if those stupid things didn’t… didn’t quite get you anywhere with the one person your heart craved. 

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and, despite the warnings from his frantic passenger, went ten miles faster. 

The snow was high as Zenigata stepped out into it, his socks almost immediately growing wet as he closed the car door, letting Ms. Takeda wait inside of the car as, technically, she wasn’t exactly _supposed_ to be on the actual scene, and could very possibly get into trouble for leading Zenigata to it in the first place.

Standing before him was an old broken down shack-- the _exact_ one he had patrolled before, in fact. Still dilapidated, windows still broken, wood still old and rotting and falling apart. The wind howled and tore into it, and for a few brief moments, Zenigata feared it may collapse completely, staring at it with concern filling his chill-dried eyes, mouth beginning to share the same fate as his cracked lips parted slightly. 

The wind, however, did not completely tip the shack, so the inspector moved forward, shoving his hands deep in his pocket and looking down, trudging forward, trying to pretend that his feet weren’t slowly, painfully going numb as he stared down at them helplessly. To take his mind off of the bite of the snow, he checked, double-checked, and triple-checked that he still had his trusty handcuffs and, of course, sure enough, they were there, albeit a lot colder than earlier as the steel had been touched by winter’s harsh tongue. 

Zenigata looked up, having to close one eye against the weather, staring down the door that now only stood a few feet in front of him. It sat ajar, shifting slightly as it attempted to rattle on its hinges, though a nice, solid layer of snow was holding it in place.

Not for long, though, Zenigata thought as he reached it, close enough to touch it now. 

He paused for a moment, nerves spiking, breath coming out in white puffs from his dry, dry mouth. He tried to swallow, but there was nothing there, so he simply allowed himself to take in the fact that this… was it.

Right? 

It was going to be over soon, he was going to be able to go home after this, take a nice, long bath, and then be ready to capture his thief the very next day, wasn’t he?

His entire body seized, clearly not wanting him to open that shack door, the fear of failure far too heavy for him to even be able to _move._ What if they weren’t there? What if it had been a false lead? Or, even worse, what if they _were_ there and more dangerous than previously anticipated? Would those four policemen who had allegedly captured the pair be dead? Brains smeared across the shack’s old, decomposing walls, blood staining the pure, crisp white snow crimson? Or perhaps, they would be alive, they would be safe, but Zenigata would screw up. What if he accidentally let them get away? Fucked up, let them slip through his fingers just like Lupin always did? 

Zenigata took a deep breath, though the air did nothing but hurt his lungs and ache for some sort of warmth that would not be provided for him. 

He just had to do it. Rip it off, nice and fast, and easy, like a bandaid. And if whatever was _below_ that bandaid bled, he was just going to have to patch it up and make it better. Which, admittedly, he wasn’t the best at, but what the hell else could he do? 

Right. Just go in. Come on, now, this is no time to pussy out. Just go in. 

Zenigata inched closer, positioning his shoulder, furrowing his brow, feeling queasy as all hell. Whatever fever he had was beginning to act up again-- seriously, now?-- and he could feel it all the way up to the top of his head. 

Just go in. It isn’t that hard. You open a door and that’s it, and whatever is behind that door can’t be _that_ difficult to face. 

His vision began to blur, and he rapidly tried to blink back any darkness fading around his peripheral. Not now, not now, not now. His stomach churned. Was he going to throw up again? 

It wasn’t the Barnett couple Zenigata feared behind that creaky old door. It was the possibility that they _weren’t_ there that made him so anxious, so stressed. The gut-wrenching prospect that the inspector was going to fail again. 

His arms and legs began to break out into goosebumps, and his face felt hot beyond reason. He could’ve melted all of the snow around him if he wanted, he could’ve turned the winter into summer, could’ve turned the moon into the sun. He was so dizzy. Was it anxiety, or was it the weird cold that had been following him around? 

This is it. Push it open. Come on, Koichi, just push it open. It isn’t that hard. It’s just a door. It’s just a door. 

Perhaps the fading vision was a mixture of both anxiety _and_ the weird cold that had been following him around. 

Just push it in. Just push it in. Just push it in. 

Was his head always this heavy? He stumbled a little. _Pull yourself together, Koichi,_ he thought harshly. _pull yourself together._

Just push it in. Come on. 

He stepped forward, feeling his knees grow weak. 

Just push it in. Please. They _will_ be there. This won’t be another failure.

His brow furrowed, trying to concentrate as he began to feel cold sweats up and down his back and neck and legs and arms. 

He took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled. His vision flashed white and then black, but he was still there. He was still conscious. 

Just push it in.

In one swift, sharp motion, Zenigata lunged forward, slamming all of his weight against the door before him, feeling it give way under his weight and swing quickly open. It pushed the snow aside, creaking almost loud enough to combat the howling, whipping winds, splinters flying from the edges as the inspector rather clumsily stumbled inside the shack, nearly falling flat on his face as he tried to concentrate on avoiding the darkness seeping further and further into his hazy vision. The moment he regained his stance, even a few moments before, he whipped his handcuffs from where they rested in his pocket, brandishing them as one would a much more dangerous weapon. 

Relief flooded his gut when he spotted the Barnetts, who had already been tied together and were sitting sheepishly on the cold, snowy ground. All the same, he felt it was important to let them know what _exactly_ was going to happen, so with every ounce of energy that he didn’t have, he opened his mouth and bellowed with all of his might--

“Gertrude and Phillip Barnett, you’re under arrest for multiple accounts of theft, arson, murder, and-- _Lupin?!”_

Zenigata stopped short, eyes blown wide. 

“Hi, Pops! Really good job on catchin’ these two fools, hm?” The thief grinned his Cheshire grin, hands proudly on his hips which were clad in a policeman’s uniform. Beside him, shivering, teeth chattering, and bundled up in enormous puffy jackets stood Jigen, Goemon, and Fujiko, the three of them waving pleasantly as though the inspector was an old friend who had just walked in on some strange dinner party. 

Okay. That was it. That was all Zenigata could take. 

Weeks upon weeks of stress and living off of scraps and coffee and cigarettes and worrying about Lupin and the stupid case and his stupid boss and stupid Brandy who took his entire crew-- well, he had bottled all of that quite well. But a bottle could only hold so much before bubbling over from the sheer pressure of it all. 

Without another word, Zenigata stumbled forward, one step, two steps, three steps, four steps-- 

and then, as Lupin’s face shifted slowly from cockiness to concern, the world faded, and Zenigata finally relented to his terrible fever and passed out cold in the snow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very long,,,,very sloppy chapter,,,, so sorry how r we all feelin on this saturday night


	8. what you are, what i am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Lupin is reunited with his inspector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unrelated to this chapter. goemon x jigen gnomeo and juliet au. thank you very much.

The storm was beginning to pick up, sky blackened with clouds as the wind began to moan gently while pushing through the skeleton branches of barren trees. Frost stuck quick and quiet to every glass surface of every exposed window, crawling along to each edge in its unique and intricate way, curling and slinking up and down the sides of the panes. 

Cars were becoming obscured, wheels already half-hidden in the frozen ground, engines stuttering slightly due to the unforgiving temperature, windshield wipers desperately attempting and failing to scrape off some of the rime, only managing to spread it even further and completely blind whoever was sitting behind the wheel with white. 

And this wasn’t the type of white to be gentle on your eyes mind you, wasn’t sweet or soft or tender. You didn’t see it and feel refreshed, didn’t crave to go out into it, and simply take it in, absorb it with the chattering of your teeth and red of your ears and numbness of your fingertips. 

No, no, this was the kind of white that blinded you, bright and merciless, sending your head reeling as you attempted to desperately process what exactly was occurring between the swirling torrents of snowflakes above and around you and the thick, high-risen snow swallowing your poor boots whole. 

It was through  _ this  _ portion of the blizzard, the peak, that Lupin was forced to rush quickly towards Zenigata who had passed out without a single word facefirst in the snow, eyes growing blank and distant, knees buckling beneath his trembling, weak body, mouth opened ever so slightly as though he was going to speak, as though he had more to say other than Lupin’s name, which died softly on his tongue as he collapsed heavily in a limp pile on the floor. 

Lupin had felt rather cocky and confident when Zenigata had first entered the little hidey-hole shack that the Barnett couple tucked themselves away in, positive that the reaction he would receive from this would be  _ enormous  _ (because surely, the only thing he liked about Zenigata was the reactions he drew from him). There would be yelling and wild gestures and hot, flushed, frustrated cheeks and eyes like fire. There would be jostling and accusing and plenty of conflicting huffs and grunts as Lupin gleefully explained how he had caught the troublesome British pair, and how he had done it  _ aaaaalllll  _ for the inspector. 

But no. His moment of fun, the little game he had been playing, the childish glee thrumming at the base of his stomach-- all of it vanished the minute he realized that Zenigata was  _ not  _ okay, and that, judging from the heat of his cheeks and forehead as Lupin gathered the poor inspector in his lap and pressed his anxious palm to his skin, he hadn’t been okay for a long, long time. 

The wind had picked up even more in that instant, making the shingles on the roof clatter together excitedly, the door flinging itself violently open and gusts of blurry white haze ripping across Lupin and his friends, all of whom were shivering and huddling close together, even stoic Goemon’s teeth chattering ever so slightly with the rapidly dropping temperatures. 

So Lupin had left. He had hoisted Zenigata up and spread him across his back, using his arms to help carry his weight, and then trudged up to his blue-lipped friends in order to apologize for ditching them so early. They hadn’t made too much of a fuss, and for some strange reason, Lupin wished they  _ had.  _ Any amount of complaining would be better than the sympathetic looks that their softened gazes offered him. They had acted as though they knew something he  _ didn’t,  _ as though there was some sort of secret that he simply wasn’t in on, and for some damned reason, that secret made them pity him. He wanted to be sick. 

However, despite his disdain for their painfully kind eyes, he was grateful that he was able to leave quickly, hauling Zenigata (who was, mind you, much larger than Lupin in both height and width) to the Fiat, which was parked hidden behind the shack, snow already beginning to cover the top and hood. Rather unceremoniously, he had tossed the inspector in the backseat, a pang of guilt stabbing him right in the chest when he heard a fairly solid  _ thunk  _ coming from the inspector’s poor head, which probably already hurt like a damned bitch what with his awful fever. 

The drive to Zenigata’s apartment felt long and stuffy and awkward, even though it wasn’t as though the inspector was conscious enough to implement any sort of half-baked conversation. Even still, there was tension heavy in the air, and it lingered on every movement that Lupin made, creeping up his arm and down his back and wrapping ‘round his fingers each time he shifted gears and merged lanes. You could cut it with a knife, so the saying goes, and it lasted for an hour and a half as the thief got stuck in a traffic jam, snow piling up too high for drivers to feel safe and comfortable going the speed limit. 

Even he was having a bit of trouble as, in a desperate attempt to avoid skidding and sending Zenigata flying across the car, he kept slamming down on the brakes every time a car turned on its signals to turn or slow down or stop. In retrospect, doing  _ that  _ was actually a lot more dangerous than going slower or just waiting out the storm beneath an overpass, which several drivers seemed to be doing, but Lupin didn’t quite care at the moment. The only thing he could think about was the man in the backseat, and how just before he had fallen unconscious a strange, softened expression flashed across his face, one that Lupin didn’t recognize, one that sent his pulse rabbiting, and one that he wished had lingered instead of fading to the facial equivalent of white noise. 

It was that very expression that made him so worried, that odd look of relief, those tilted eyebrows, those lips just barely parted. Zenigata wasn’t the type to be grateful when somebody else did his job for him-- or, at least, when it came to catching Lupin. He had said before that he was the only one equipped for such a job, and whenever somebody attempted to interfere or provide help, he would scoff and turn them away and tell them that no, no, this was his job and his job alone. Lupin was his. 

Little did he know, though, that the statement went both ways, Lupin thought through gritted teeth, eyes locked on his white knuckles as they anxiously gripped the steering wheel. Not only did the thief belong to him-- in a professional, cops and robber situation, of course-- but he belonged to the thief. He wasn’t supposed to go chasing after other people, and it wasn’t as though Lupin was jealous or anything, but it had been a hell of a lot more boring with him working on the Barnett case. 

That wasn’t something he was able to think about, though, as he was too busy evading getting rear-ended on an awkward turn in some one-way-only lane that somebody had decided was more than one way.

At long last, he managed to relocate Zenigata’s apartment in the frost and the snow and the harsh, icy winds. It was somewhat difficult, but somehow, he found an empty space to park in and drag poor Zenigata inside, getting several strange looks from the young woman behind the lobby desk, as well as the man wheeling a cleaning cart around the hallways. Sadly for them, though, he didn’t quite care what they thought. Didn’t care about their furrowed brows or judgemental eyes or the way they leaned closer to whoever was nearest to hiss something in their ear. No, none of that even  _ mattered,  _ for all he cared about was the man weak and limp and spread out on his back. 

Anxiety had never seized him so violently as it had when he saw Zenigata pass out, and it stuck to him the entire time he was lugging the inspector around, never once relinquishing its hold on his body. He knew damn well that Zenigata would be okay, knew that he didn’t really have anything to worry about, and yet when he finally picked the lock of the inspector’s door and rushed to lay him down on his bed, his stomach dropped when he saw how terrible the inspector’s condition  _ really  _ was. 

The wind was still howling outside, loud and invasive and creeping into the small, drafty apartment through the cracks in the cheap glass. Lupin was sitting on the foot of Zenigata’s bed and waiting with a jittery left leg for the kettle in the kitchen to start to whine, indicating that the water he had filled it with had finally boiled and he could make a mug of chamomile tea, which he found in a little untouched box right in the back of the cupboard moments before.

Beneath him, Zenigata’s mattress was terribly thin, the springs pushing into his thighs uncomfortably. He kept shifting around, lifting his legs slightly or crossing them or tilting them here or pulling them there, but to no avail. It was just an awful, billion-year-old mattress, one that the inspector probably had to deal with for a very long portion of his career, as ICPO refused to give as much as they took. 

Worrying at his lower lip, he turned slightly, back popping involuntarily beneath his skin as his gaze fell gently upon Zenigata, who still hadn’t woken up just yet. Lupin had done his very best to get rid of his wet, cold clothes around twenty minutes ago, peeling them off of his skin slowly, as he didn’t want to accidentally jostle him too much. He had dressed him in a pair of flannel pyjama pants found at the bottom of his drawer and a boring, brown sweater, one that was thick and a little scratchy but was much better than Zenigata’s bare chest exposed at an uncomfortable angle on the bed (Lupin, whilst dressing him, had a hard time propping him up, so he just let him fall). 

He exhaled through his nose, frowning at the man before him and his flushed cheeks and bright pink nose. He was breathing slowly, deeply, rhythmically, chest rising and falling, bringing the blanket the thief had thrown over him right along with it. At this point, he was probably just asleep, having exhausted himself from continuing to work on the Barnett case even though he most likely  _ knew  _ just how ill he had become. 

Why hadn’t he just taken a little break? Why did he feel the need to beat the case with such fervor despite the fact that he wasn’t even  _ directly  _ involved? He was working in the information department, temporarily transported there to find any potential patterns and rhythms in the British couple’s heists, not even being used to find anything current or straight on, and yet he was always the last to leave. Lupin would know-- he had been tracking his movements ever since he discovered the reason why he wasn’t constantly at his heels anymore. 

He considered moving closer to be right by Zenigata’s side just in case he woke up, or even simply leaning over to pat his leg in some sort of awkward gesture of comfort, but he was rooted to the spot. There was something between them, a barrier, almost, one that the thief was unable to break. 

How sad and ironic it was that, despite being the best thief in the world, despite  _ just  _ picking the lock of a police officer’s home and catching a pair of elusive thrill-chasers, despite never failing in his heists, always swiping the gem or taking the cash or getting the girl, he was completely useless against a few emotional walls. 

He had always thought that Zenigata wore his heart on his sleeve for everybody to see, for everybody to touch and toy with, but maybe… maybe he was wrong. 

In the past several weeks, he had learned more about the inspector than he ever had in his entire life. He had learned that he was not quite the man that always wore the hat and the big, tan trench coat and the beige pants that were either always khaki or corduroy. He was someone else entirely behind that loud, energetic, enthusiastic façade, and the guilt that Lupin felt squeezing his ribs for never realizing this sooner hadn’t left him, not once, ever since he had realized that Zenigata’s world did not simply revolve around him and him alone.

Such a thought made him wish that he had taken the time to listen-- really and actually  _ listen--  _ whenever Zenigata spoke. 

Occasionally, during those rare, quiet moments where they were on the same side, fighting against the same enemy, looking out for one another, the inspector would open up about himself. Which was, admittedly, something he seldom did, usually preferring to keep himself a closed book, a straight line, trying to shift his personality into something that made those around him satisfied. He was certainly a people-pleaser, that was for damn sure, and he would never share anything actually,  _ really  _ personal about himself. At least not to just anybody. 

Lupin wished more than anything that he had been more attentive. Wished that he hadn’t brushed off everything Zenigata said as some sentimental nonsense that he didn’t have to worry or care about, something that wouldn’t matter in the long run so long as the pair could escape or succeed in whatever caper they were pulling. 

However, after rummaging around Zenigata’s belongings while cleaning his apartment, after looking at some of his favorite books or records or some of the decorations he held in his little dusty, lonely, empty home, Lupin understood that those few things the inspector had said about himself, those small anecdotes that Lupin sure as hell couldn’t remember… they were probably important. 

Maybe they didn’t contain vital information that would lead the thief to some secret safe or the code to saving the world, maybe they didn’t have anything that could be considered useful to Lupin in case he ever wanted to find out a weakness of Zenigata’s, maybe they really  _ were  _ just choked full of sentimental nonsense that he didn’t have to worry about. 

But… but wasn’t that just it? Wasn’t sentimental nonsense the most important part of a person, wasn’t sentimental nonsense what made somebody who they were? If so, how the hell could Lupin have  _ missed  _ all of that stuff about his favorite inspector? How could he miss out on who Zenigata was?

Lupin turned slightly where he sat, rotating his body so that he was now facing the weak, bedridden inspector, staring at the way his eyelashes oh so gently brushed against the  _ very  _ top of his cheek, observing with a fluttering heart how his lips parted just barely before closing.

Once again, he considered reaching out, considered touching him or coming a little bit closer the way his bones begged him to do, the way his muscles  _ ached  _ for him to do, the way his heart screamed at him to do… but he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he had been blocked and pushed away by that silly wall he wasn’t able to figure out, couldn’t because to do that might awaken something else in him. Something he had been hoping to keep dormant despite knowing that it was there, lingering in the back of his mind, sticking like glue to his thoughts.

For to see Zenigata up close and look at the freckles smattered like stardust across the bridge of his nose or the laugh lines forming sweetly around his mouth or the crow’s feet by his big, doleful eyes might pull something out of him that he had been avoiding for so, so very long now. 

So he sat. And he stared. And he waited for the kettle to boil, because what else was he able to do? He  _ wanted  _ to move in and fuss and cluck over Zenigata like an anxious mother hen, wanted more than anything to simply caress his cheek and press his palm into his arm in an attempt to comfort him and tell him that he was okay, that it was going to be okay, that everything was okay, but he knew that he wasn’t allowed to do that. Knew that he had to keep his distance, for it would keep the both of them safe. So he sat. And he stared. And he waited for the kettle to boil, because what else was he able to do?

Absently, he wondered how the others were faring in the weather, and if they had managed to get the Barnett pair arrested without being found out themselves. He knew that they would be fine and didn’t require any sort of assistance-- it was a fairly simple caper, after all, the hardest part having been tracking down the location of the annoying married couple and managing to pin them before they wriggled away like the slimy worms that they were. Other than that, they didn’t fight too hard as Lupin and the others bagged them-- or, at least, it didn’t seem like they did. They weren’t a very formidable foe and went down quite easily. 

Even if the others  _ did  _ get caught by the officers that were on their way to the scene, Lupin thought as he smoothed over a few wrinkles in the sheets at the foot of the bed, they would be a-okay. It took a lot more than a few cops to even slow them, especially when they were all working together, and there was no doubt in the thief’s mind that, as soon as the British thieves were hauled off to the big house, they would make a clean, easy getaway with little to no fuss, and be back at Zenigata’s apartment before long. 

For now, though, they were still gone, most likely still waiting in the cold for the officers to arrive (the traffic really was  _ insane),  _ which meant that they might not even be at the apartment by morning. Seeing as their current hideout, tucked away in a small, unknown hotel was closer, they might just stop there for a moment to rest, stay the night, and arrive the day after, leaving Lupin and Zenigata alone for the time being. 

The thief worried at his lower lip, looking down at his hands that he hadn’t even noticed he’d be wringing nervously the entire time, not entirely sure what to think of spending an entire night alone with the man before him. 

What would happen when he awoke? Would it be awkward? Would they fight? Would Zenigata be too sick to speak? Would he even wake up before the morning rolled around? 

The answers to these questions all floated around indeterminately in Lupin’s brain, which was too muddied with the concern blooming in his ice-cold chest to even think straight. He hadn’t even considered what was to happen when the inspector came to, he simply did what he thought was right in the moment and nothing else, Zenigata’s safety being his number one priority. He had been moving on autopilot, going through the motions on how to save somebody’s life over and over in his head, praying that what he was doing was enough to keep the poor inspector with him (truth be told, it probably wasn’t that serious, but when Lupin worried, he  _ worried).  _

Briefly and without a hint of warning, Zenigata’s lashes suddenly fluttered where they sat, and he left out a soft huff as, with much sleepy, lazy effort, he shifted. Beneath his weight, the bed creaked and his breath changed rather significantly in pattern as, softly, he snorted and tossed his head to the side. 

Afterward, waiting for something,  _ anything  _ at all to happen, Lupin blinked, feeling every muscle in his body tense up as he stared anxiously at the man before him. His rival. Somebody he cared so magnificently deeply for. His  _ friend.  _ Somebody that made his heart race and his stomach flutter. 

Was he beginning to wake up? Should Lupin leave the room just in case he got upset with his presence? Was there anything that he could do to possibly make him feel better, even if it was just a little bit? 

However, Zenigata soon stopped stirring, making Lupin realize that he had merely been shifting positions, his breath growing even again as the rise and fall of his chest resumed its regular pace. 

Though he was somewhat relieved that he didn’t have to deal with explanations  _ just  _ yet, Lupin exhaled sharply and impatiently through his nose, beginning to grow far too jittery for his own good. His leg bounced rather restlessly against the floor, stomach twisting, nervousness eating away at him while, with a furrowed brow, he wrung his hands. 

Should he try and wake the inspector up to make sure that he didn’t have any injuries other than the obvious? Should he tidy up a little bit more than he already had? He and the others had already gotten rid of all of the dust in Zenigata’s apartment, but they left any clutter they could find on the floor and couches and tables, hoping that if the outermost layer of his home was unorganized then surely, he wouldn’t notice that it had been deep-cleaned right down to the grout. Literally. 

Suddenly, the solution to his boredom made itself known in the kitchen, shrieking frantically as Lupin sprang to his feet, partially because he was startled but mostly because he was enormously grateful to have something to  _ do  _ other than just sit around and simply  _ wait,  _ which was something he hadn’t ever been good at in the first place. His boundless, spontaneous, and exciting personality made it impossible for him to be patient; he had to be doing something, otherwise, he felt as though he were going to explode, mind racing far too fast for him to ever be alone with any of his thoughts. 

With one last concerned look tossed Zenigata’s way, he quickly shuffled out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar for him to come back to. 

It was certainly colder in the kitchen than it was in the bedroom, probably a lot less insulated since there were so many windows to let the chill in. That being said, everything else was cold, too, and Lupin was beginning to wonder just how the hell Zenigata managed to survive the wintertime when his home was so poorly built. 

For a fleeting moment, he stood above the kettle, fingers lingering atop the dial on the gas stove once he clicked it off, the steam and the noise from the kettle dying down slowly, burning out and fading away as he simply stared. He ran the pads of his forefinger over the metallic surface, worrying at his lower lip, realizing for the first time that, perhaps, he shouldn’t be doing this. 

Perhaps, his mind murmured to him as he plucked a bag of chamomile tea out from its box, he should just leave. Let Zenigata rest, give him the space that he deserved. Was it not partially Lupin’s fault that he had fallen ill? Was it not partially Lupin’s fault that it had taken him so long to capture the Barnett couple? Was it not partially Lupin’s fault that he had been distracted, that he had failed multiple times at his task? 

The thief gingerly lifted the kettle from where it sat, careful not to let it spill over or let the hot part come into contact with his unprotected hands as, cautiously, he tipped the nozzle over the little ceramic mug he had picked up from one of the floating cabinets above the kitchen countertop. 

It would be for the best, right? To just shove off, let Zenigata get better in his own time, and then allow things to go back to normal-- it’d be healthy for the both of them. 

For, Lupin thought while he waited for the tea to steep, Zenigata hadn’t been the  _ only  _ one to obsess during the past several weeks. Ever since Lupin had discovered the inspector’s involvement with a different case, he simply couldn’t keep his mind off of it; the thought ate away at him every waking moment, and he feared that he would eventually just get left behind if he wasn’t careful enough. 

Of course, though, such a thought was unbelievably silly. Even if Zenigata  _ had  _ forgotten about Lupin (which wasn’t likely in the first place), it shouldn’t matter so much. He had lost friends in the past, hadn’t he? He had been forced to let go of people before, had to recover from loss in a matter of days so that he didn’t fall behind, so what made this so  _ different?  _ What made Zenigata so special to him? 

Carefully, he lifted the hot mug in his hands, thumb trailing over the glass as he blew across the top and, absentmindedly, took a sip to make sure it tasted right for Zenigata, letting his eyes flutter closed for just a moment. It burned his tongue horrifically and he felt the heat fall right through to his gut. It really was  _ the _ most comfortably uncomfortable feeling. 

He glanced out of the kitchen window and at the street, the storm still relentless, gusts of wind rocking loose objects from where they sat, a few stragglers pulling each other along by their hands and their scarves and their coats and their mittens as they tried to drag one another into the closest building. From distant apartments, he could see warm lights glowing in the darkness, friends and family and lovers hunkering down to withstand the biting cold of winter.

With a quiet sigh, he wondered where his  _ own  _ friends were, wondered which light belonged to them. There was a slight cough, a mere clearing of the throat as Lupin gazed down at the chamomile tea in his hands as a new thought entered his mind. 

He wondered where he and Zenigata stood on that scale. 

Friends, maybe?

He stepped away from the kitchen counter, careful not to let any of the tea spill onto his bare hands and scald him. He and Zenigata had known each other for ages, hadn’t they? Twenty years, which was even more than he knew  _ Jigen  _ (but, to be fair, that was only a one year difference). 

Friends seemed to suit them just fine despite their rivalry, despite the fact that Zenigata was constantly trying to lock Lupin up and Lupin was constantly trying to trick Zenigata into doing something other than that. That was certainly friendly behavior, especially when all of their games began to simply feel like  _ games,  _ and not life and death situations as they had at the very, very beginning. There was something there, a little bit of warmth, of softness, of gentle sympathy that kept them from hurting one another. So, surely, he was a friend, right? 

Lupin frowned, locking eyes with his quivering reflection as it gazed back at him from the golden hue of the tea. Such a label would make sense if it weren’t so light, weren’t so semi-meaningless to the relationship between Lupin and Zenigata. To be friends was to get along, to laugh and joke and argue and love each other unconditionally, and yes, the thief and inspector already did all of these things, but there was something else there. 

If that was the case, could it be family, then? 

He made his way down the hallway, once again ignoring those empty memories hanging on the walls, crooked and untouched and oddly painful to look at. Family would make sense, wouldn’t it? Not the related kind, not even the adoptive kind, but still close enough to be considered someone that Lupin could call a part of his life. He considered his friends to be his family-- Jigen, Fujiko, and Goemon, that is-- and he could see how easy it was to slip Pops into that category. 

There had been many times where Lupin caught himself actively enjoying the inspector’s presence, but it didn’t feel the same. Didn’t feel like the jovial little moments of peace between them, didn’t feel like a glass of whiskey or a game of cards or a near-silent cigarette break spent in the cold, shoulders pressed hard together as to keep warm, smoke filling their lungs and escaping through the cracks of his lips and his nose. It was a feeling much, much more than friendship, something that ran far deeper, something that pooled in Lupin’s gut and made him feel wonderfully hurt. 

It was strange, and, if Lupin was being honest, somewhat of a stretch, but since what he felt for Zenigata was much stronger than friendship,  _ surely  _ he must consider him to be apart of the gang’s little family. 

Yeah, that had to be it. Jigen, Goemon, Fujiko, Lupin, and Zenigata. Five of the best of their trades, truly, and the best damned ragtag family that ever could exist. 

Lupin pushed against Zenigata’s door, pushing it open with his foot, still staring at the chamomile tea in his hands as to not let it slip from his grasp. He didn’t want to get burnt or make a mess or accidentally wake the inspector, who was still peacefully asleep in bed, covers falling off of his large frame as he must’ve tossed in the bed while Lupin was gone. 

Sighing, a hint of a hint of a smile touching his lips, the thief moved forward, trying his best not to make too much noise, stepping close to the walls as to keep the cold, stiff, old floorboards from creaking and waking Zenigata. He held his breath for each step as the chill seeped through his socks and onto the bare soles of his feet, thinking that maybe it would quiet him down a little bit, though he knew such thinking wasn’t rational in the slightest. 

As a matter of fact, he knew that no matter how much noise he made, Zenigata  _ still  _ wouldn’t wake up. He was a deep sleeper, as Lupin had come to realize over the many years they had known one another, and this probably amplified itself when he was sick. Looking at him now, especially, really made it seem so-- the man looked as if he had slipped and fallen right into a coma, and was certainly not about to wake up just because somebody creaked a loose board on his floor. 

Lupin, careful as ever, made his way towards the little white nightstand next to Zenigata’s bed, slowly lowering the mug of tea atop it, trying to prevent any sort of sound coming from the ceramic touching the wood by using his pinkie to cushion the glass. It still made a little  _ thunk  _ as it landed, and he winced, biting at his lip and looking up apologetically at Zenigata who was, surprise surprise, still fast asleep, and not about to wake up anytime soon. 

He sighed quietly, standing up straight and letting his fists drift to his hips to rest, gaze flicking over the inspector’s poor, weakened body. 

How had it come to this? How had he been so careless, how could he have ignored Zenigata’s state of being for so long? Now he was sick and he looked utterly  _ exhausted  _ and it was Lupin’s fault. Maybe not directly, sure, but it was still  _ Lupin’s fault,  _ and the guilt he felt because of this was immense, running deep in his veins and clogging every artery in his body. 

“Oh, Pops,” he murmured, feeling a jolt shoot up his spine as he stepped closer to the bed, not quite thinking about what he was doing. 

Slowly, still trying his best not to disturb the sleeping man, he eased down onto the mattress, sitting right in front of the inspector, close enough to where he could see everything that scared him so magnificently. 

The freckles. The laugh lines. The crow’s feet. 

His thought process from before slipped back into his head, the one-sided discussion of what Zenigata meant to Lupin came and reentered his conscience, nagging at him, tugging at his nerves. 

Gingerly, he reached out with his left hand as his right leaned against the mattress to keep the thief stable. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?” He hummed, barely above a whisper, hand inching closer and closer to Zenigata’s face. 

What had that all been about again? Whether the inspector was a friend or apart of Lupin’s little family, right? And what had he chosen? It was family, wasn’t it? 

He felt a burning right in the tips of his fingers, as though he were about to touch an open flame. Anxiety clung to his ribs like frost, brow furrowing, a shaky breath escaping his trembling lips. C’mon now, Lupin. It’s nothing to get so worked up about. 

The more he thought about the decision he had made of where Zenigata stood in his life, the more he realized that perhaps, there was a little bit more. Another option, a third that he had intentionally ignored because he knew it was the correct one. Because, deep in his gut, he knew-- he  _ knew--  _ that Zenigata was more than a friend, more than somebody that Lupin lumped into his little group, and that was really saying something because God  _ damn  _ if that little group wasn’t close-knit. So what was it? What could he  _ possibly  _ mean to Lupin? 

His fingers brushed against the rough skin of an unshaven cheek-- really, now, Pops, Lupin thought rather affectionately-- and for just a moment, he realized how Icarus must’ve felt.

He just had to fly higher on those wax-born wings. 

He just had to get  _ closer.  _

Lupin’s hand slid up ‘til his palm cupped Zenigata’s face, thumb slowly, slowly,  _ oh  _ so slowly stroking the soft flesh beneath his eye, the heat of his fever quite obvious as it burned violently at his poor skin. 

The thief decided that he would get up and grab a wet towel, something cold to place atop his head, to maybe lower his temperature even just a little bit-- but soon found that he couldn’t move.

He was transfixed, enchanted, even, and his gaze was locked on Zenigata’s peaceful face, on the way he gently leaned into the thief’s palm, on the way his lashes fluttered  _ ever  _ so slightly and brushed against Lupin’s trembling fingers. 

That third option, Lupin thought, feeling himself grow terribly weak. That’s what Zenigata meant to him. There was too much between them for them to be friends and too much of… of something else that Lupin couldn’t quite place for them to care for one another like family. 

Lupin swallowed hard, a lump burning painfully at the base of his throat. “Ah,” he said, voice quivering violently as the realization struck him and settled in his sternum. “there it is.” 

He smiled, defeated, stroking Zenigata’s cheek so carefully you would’ve thought him to be the most valuable treasure in the world. “I think I lost this round, Pops.” he chuckled, and the world went blurry around the edges, that lump still burning in his throat. When he swallowed around it, it tightened, and his hand stopped moving as his lower lip trembled. He was so  _ tired.  _

It felt good to give up. To just turn himself over. To admit his defeat. 

It felt good to allow himself to love Zenigata the way he always knew he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lupin, coming seductively into zeni's room in a skimpy lil nurse outfit: looks like somebody needs an injection ;) are u ready for ur sponge bath inspector ;) you've been prescribed with a kiss, must take it morning noon and night ;) 
> 
> zenigata, who has had four doses of nyquil in one go and cannot tell if this is a fever-induced night terror or ghosts in his house: if anybody is in the room with me please give me a sign


	9. cold hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Zenigata discovers that he had been returned back home, he finds it quite difficult to focus on anything other than Lupin and his cold hands as they fuss and worry so strangely over his sick body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up cool cats hows it hangin :-] pov i kissa u

Heavy gusts of wind brought frigid air and endless torrents of blurry white snow sweeping across the desolate area that the Barnetts had been caught in. Whispering nonsense, the wind whisked through the boughs of trees as they bent against their will, being pushed by the ever-present force of the wintery storm as it battered against their chipping bark and naked branches. Everything was white-- blinding, painful, bright white-- and if you ever had the misfortune of losing whatever landmark you were closest to, you were bound to be stranded for however long the blizzard lasted. 

It was a real storm out there, a doozy, an annual disaster, at least that’s what the radio had been saying for the several days leading up to this moment. Show hosts chuckled in their cozy studios that “you should prepare for such an event,” the words spoken with soft, quiet voices between sips of scalding coffee that was laden with far too much creamer in order to chase the bitterness away completely. Zenigata had brushed them off, ignoring their warnings, knowing that he would be fine because he  _ had  _ to be. 

Now, though, lying helpless and useless on his back, he wished he had listened. He wasn’t sure how much time he had before his joints were too stiff to move-- and in fact, he wasn’t entirely sure how he hadn’t died yet. He was outside, caught in the thick of it, wasn’t he? Still trapped in that awful little shack with the Barnetts tied up like fools and Lupin standing with the cockiest grin he’d ever seen, right? He didn’t remember moving, ever, and every single inch of his body could feel the angry wind as it nipped mercilessly at his stiff, chilly skin.

The snow he lay upon was, at least, soft, and not harsh on his aching limbs-- for _ oh,  _ they ached terribly-- and he didn’t feel  _ too  _ uncomfortable as he waited for the cold to take the digits from his hands and feet away. Hypothermia had crept up on him several times before, though was never quite able to catch hold of him in its ruthless grasp, and he would manage to slip away every time. 

Until now, that was, and as he felt his lips go numb, he realized that it wasn’t half as bad as he thought it would be. It didn’t hurt. Or, perhaps it did, he just couldn’t  _ feel  _ it, which was probably for the best.

Trying to wriggle deeper into his trenchcoat (and then finding that he could not, in fact, move a single inch), he realized all too late that Lupin had probably meant for something like this to happen. That, at last, he had grown tired of humoring a washed-out old cop, found a chance to rid himself of a nuisance, and then took it. He didn’t need the dead weight of somebody like Zenigata anyway, couldn’t afford to have the inspector clinging onto his every move, watching him like a hawk, constantly at his heel. He had work to do, and though he always slipped away from his nemesis in the end with ease, the man was still another obstacle between him and his treasure.

As depressing as it was to be left to freeze by a man you found that you trusted, that you found you even loved, Zenigata wasn’t phased in the slightest. He definitely had it coming, didn’t he? He had bothered Lupin long enough, and they  _ both  _ knew that the thief had been going easy on him all these years, so it was only a matter of time before he didn’t want to play anymore. It was bitter and it was dirty and it was damn near heartbreaking in a way, but wasn’t that the case with every permanent goodbye? 

Unsurprised as he was, however, Zenigata had to admit, he hadn’t expected his demise to be so… underwhelming. He would’ve thought that when Lupin killed him, it would be with his beloved Walther, set somewhere romantically tragic like the dilapidated ruins of Greece or some sort of garden, one that compared and outshined Eden tenfold. He would, of course, go on a long, annoyingly flowery tangent about their fate and how it tangled into knots with red string and barbed wire, but now it was time to undo those knots, to allow their destinies to drift away and part so that he wasn’t tied any longer his dear, oh so beloved enemy, so on and so forth. And then, with one last theatrical glimpse, one last strained whisper of a fake confession or a fake apology or a fake plea to the universe to make things different so that he didn’t have to follow through with this dirty deed (all three would probably be spoken in French), he would squeeze the trigger and it would be over.

But that hadn’t happened. 

And part of the frozen inspector, the cold, angry, desperate part locked away behind his ribs and yearning for somebody who he knew  _ damn  _ well he should hate, wished it had because at least then he wouldn’t feel so lonely. 

Such idiotic thoughts and musings soon fizzled from his slow-moving brain; he had no time for them. He had to focus on the here, the now, and the first step of that would be to have the ability to take a look at his surroundings and get his bearings.

Straining, he attempted to force his eyes open, though found it to be extremely difficult. They wouldn’t budge no matter how much or how hard he tried. Something was holding them back, something wet and cold and solid, and after a few moments of struggling, he realized with a sinking feeling of dread that a thin layer of ice was crusted over his waterline and preventing him from even catching a sliver of a glimpse of the world around him. 

Panic rose in his chest-- if he couldn’t open his eyes, then he was a goner for  _ sure--  _ and he almost tried to lash around, tried to move or cry out for help or something, anything to preserve himself. He had been so lucky for so long, had slipped past so many near-death experiences, he was just short of making a deal with the devil and even then he would probably be able to evade that fate. Come to think about it, when it came to his life facing danger, he was just about as slippery as Lupin himself; he had gone on for so, so long, managed to brave through every obstacle he was faced with. Could this really be the end?

Slowly but surely, that panic he felt began to ebb away. The realization that he wasn’t going to make it struck him right in the throat, and as odd and sick and sad as this fact made him feel, it also managed to calm him down. He was a lost cause, and trying to do anything would be futile, so should he really worry? If he wasn’t trying to save his own ass, if he wasn’t thrashing around and attempting to make it back to his car or at least somewhere with a bit of shelter, maybe his death wouldn’t be so hard on him.

Even still, he figured he may as well accept his fate with a clear view of the sky-- though it obviously wouldn’t be clear. He just didn’t want to see black before his time was up, wanted to at least catch one more blurry glimpse of the snow and the billowing dark clouds and the rotting wood of the broken shack surrounding him. 

It certainly took quite a lot of strength that he didn’t have, the cold long since sapping him of any power that may have remained hidden in his ever-weakening bones, but he eventually felt the way his snow-thick lashes fluttered, and the sting of cold air on his damp, watery eyes. It took quite a while, and for what felt like several minutes, he simply lay there, eyelids jerking awkwardly, concentration quite evident on his face despite the fact that he couldn’t really move his mouth to form any sort of expression at all.

Finally, though, with one last strenuous tug, his eyes wrenched open, and his sight was immediately flooded with a curtain of pure white.

Unsurprised, he sat there patiently shivering, waiting for his vision to adjust to the wall of snow blowing above him, which didn’t take as long as he had expected. Didn’t take as long as it  _ should’ve _ . 

He ignored this, though, merely happy to see, and wondered with grim curiosity just how long it’d take until he was buried up to his nose in the thick snowfall. 

Such a grim thought made his gut twist, and whether it was from fear or sadness, he couldn’t tell. So, with a pang in his heart, he decided not to think about it any longer. 

He couldn’t lift his body, but from his angle, he could see that the Barnetts were gone. As was the rope binding them together, which meant that Lupin had sent them on their way to prison, where they would be serving a fairly good amount of time to atone for the bullshit that they had pulled. That, at least, was a relief; he didn’t have to worry about dying a  _ complete  _ failure.

Lupin, Zenigata noticed with the slightest hint of involuntary sadness, was gone, too. It wasn’t as if he had even  _ expected  _ him to stay, but the least he could’ve done was linger just a tad more to watch the inspector take his last breath. 

Though, to be fair, that in itself was quite a lot to ask of somebody-- so maybe he could’ve just stayed ‘til Zenigata was conscious. 

He would probably notice with mild interest that his nemesis’ snow-ridden eyes had finally opened and grin, making some sort of smarmy comment. And then, just like that, he would walk away, leaving nothing in his wake but tracks in the snow and the final breath that followed his final word during his final moment with the man that he had been shaking off for twenty whole years now.

A part of Zenigata resented Lupin for leaving him behind, wanted to tell him just how much he hated his guts, how he would haunt him or curse him or something as equally ridiculous, but he found that any anger he tried to force into his body was immediately snubbed out by the snow. He was too tired to be angry, too weak to seeth with rage, too numb to hate Lupin even though he knew he probably should. 

What he  _ could  _ feel, however, was sadness. And feel it he did, for it pooled in his gut and snaked up to his ribcage, cracking each bone and seeping into the marrow itself, sliding up, up, up along his limp body ‘til it coiled around his neck and held fast and held tight and held strong. 

Thorns at his throat, he tried to cry, tried to whimper or do something,  _ anything  _ to express the ache of being alone in his final moments, but found that he couldn’t. Found that each time he tried to move, each time he tried to make a noise or allow a tear to slip through, he would fail. Could he really be frozen solid?  _ Already?  _ Was the snow really that bad? Was such a thing even physically possible?

Surely not, he thought and continued to try and worm around. He willed his muscles to just budge, to show any sign of life, to let him know that he wasn’t already dead, but there was no response. With each jerk of movement he thought he had made, he merely continued to remain still as a statue. 

Despite it being clearly impossible to squirm about, he was determined to at least get  _ some  _ sort of movement in before he kicked the bucket, wanted to make it seem as though he hadn’t just given up (which, essentially, he had, but maybe if he struggled and thrashed, his autopsy would show different results) and fought the good fight before he left. 

As he strained against his icy shackles, he didn’t realize that he could no longer hear the wind scraping against his ears. It was still there, sure, but it was much further away than it had been, as though it were behind something, tucked away and hidden from him, kept far back from his body as to stop tormenting him for just a moment. 

This thought struck him quite suddenly after his third attempt at opening his mouth, and he stopped trying to move altogether, blinking slowly, slowly, slowly. Much slower than he should’ve. Where had it gone? A split second ago, it was threatening to blow his eardrums clean out or sweep his body right off of the ground and fling him into the rickety wall of the tiny shack the Barnetts had hidden in-- so where the hell was it? 

Another observation that befell him in that moment of realization was the fact that the cold was no longer so… harsh. It wasn’t biting with rigid, icicle teeth at his poor fingers or nose, wasn’t freezing the very breath in his lungs, wasn’t weighing down on him like a deadly blanket. In fact, he was almost…  _ warm. _

Not hot like they say you get when you get hypothermia, not the heat that makes your skin itch and your clothes feel far too heavy and your cheeks burn, fingers anxious to remove the thick layers protecting you from the cold… 

...but warm. 

Cozy, even, as though there wasn’t even any snow to begin with.

Once more, he blinked, and it was as if he was trapped underwater. Slowly, slowly, he was made aware of a consistent buzzing in his head, white noise that he hadn’t remembered from mere moments before. It was dull, thrumming, not fizzing and cracking like static, but rather a simple, muted hum. It enveloped his head, body feeling odd and light. 

When his vision began to fade near the edges, Zenigata came to the conclusion that he was dying. 

Probably. 

Maybe.

He hadn’t ever felt what it was like to die before, so obviously he didn’t have anything to base this off of, but this  _ must  _ be what it’s like, right? Numbness, warmth, and strange white noise? Fading vision, darkness ebbing along his peripheral? This was it, the final stretch before it was over; could it even possibly be anything else?

Long time coming, he thought, almost humorously, relaxing into the snow beneath him, which, surprisingly, was beginning to feel a lot softer than it had before, a lot more plush, almost like fabric. 

He made one last halfhearted attempt to move, maybe not to escape the fate coming so gently to him, but rather just to see if he could. A challenge, if you will, something that would remind him that he wasn’t a total loss. He could say that he had at least tried. And so, he mustered up all of the strength that had already fled his body and focused it all on his arm. 

When Zenigata felt his muscle twitch, he was vaguely aware of a light pressure being applied to his palm. Fingers, rough and cold, tracing the deep lines and thin white scars, pads lingering over every knuckle, smoothing over every nail, pushing so lightly into each joint. There was somebody with him.

The inspector’s eyes opened.  _ Actually opened _ . And he was met with the bunny-shaped crack in his ceiling.

He was not stranded in some unmarked, dilapidated shack, he was not half-buried in snow as his fingers froze off of his hands, and he was certainly not dying.

Instead, when his lashes finally fluttered and his vision returned normally to him and he  _ knew  _ that he was  _ really  _ awake, he found himself lying in bed, clad in a sweater and pyjama bottoms, safe and sound albeit feeling a little under the weather. His lamp was on next to him, piercing the darkness that the storm brought forth, warm and yellow and spilling over his chilly body like honey.

It had all simply been a dream. A mere nightmare caused by the events that had happened earlier, which probably combined with the symptoms of his fever to poison his mind with some strange, vivid, gruesome scene where he was caught right at the end of the rope. 

He sighed heavily, allowing his eyes to slowly close without the fear of icing over, exhaustion weighing down heavy on his weary bones as he soaked up the feeling of his mattress creaking stiffly beneath him and blankets that had been draped with such care overtop him. His head was swimming, and everything felt so strange, so distorted despite the fact that he knew he was awake this time. If he wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t be feeling the throbbing pain in the back of his skull, a dull pulse that wasn’t enough to make him cry out or wince but was certainly enough to bother him to the point of a small groan escaping his mouth.

“I was wondering when you’d come around,” 

Zenigata’s eyes fluttered abruptly, more involuntary than anything conscious; he had nearly forgotten about the fact that he was not alone. Now that he knew who was there, though, he wished that he was.

He tried to ignore his visitor, gazing with forlorn eyes at the popcorn on his ceiling, pretending that the warmth in his cheeks was all from his rising temperature, begging himself not to concentrate on the way Lupin’s hand was so gently toying with his own.

“I thought you’d never wake up, honestly,” Lupin continued, and from his peripheral, Zenigata could see the way he lowered his head, an unreadable expression etched into his face-- a face that Zenigata usually knew, usually recognized. Now, though, he was a stranger. “you sure know how to sleep in,” 

Zenigata didn’t reply, feeling far too dizzy to formulate any sort of articulate answer. Instead, he just heaved a sigh before closing his eyes, and despite his best efforts, he could feel the way his brow furrowed and he wished more than anything that it wouldn’t. 

“I carried you all the way here, you know that? And you  _ ain’t  _ a light fella, good God. Pops, you’re huge! Very tall, very broad! I never fully understood that ‘til now,” the thief prattled on, and his thumb dug absently into the pressure point on Zenigata’s palm. Instead of shooting pain through his hand, though, it just felt good; he was quite skilled with his hands, after all, but the inspector never expected it to be in a massage sort of sense. His pinkie and ring finger twitched. 

“I got all sorts of odd looks lugging your ass up here,” Lupin continued, a dry chuckle clinging to the edge of his words. “fairly certain that every passerby probably thought you were drunk or drugged or both or dead. Seriously, I mean, you were  _ out  _ out. Like a light,” 

Zenigata sniffed, wishing that his heart would cease its stuttering. 

“Gotcha back home, though, so I suppose that makes me a hero of sorts. You agree, right? That it was pretty heroic of me to go out of my way just to get you back to bed? I  _ knew  _ you were sick,” Lupin chuckled, squeezing Zenigata’s hand lightly. There was a strange undertone to his voice, like a bitter aftertaste to your favorite candy, something rotting beneath the sweet sticky surface that stuck to your molars and clung to your gums. “I’ve known you were sick for weeks, now.”

Did Zenigata want to find out what that bitterness meant? Find out what his tone entailed? What he wanted to say but was hiding beneath his own tongue? 

Has his throat always felt this tight?

“You’ve really gone and gotten yourself into quite the sticky situation, Pops. Why’re you always looking for trouble like that?” Lupin teased, and this time, Zenigata turned his head ever so slightly to see him, eyes drawing open as, cotton-mouthed, he began to rifle through the words trying to push themselves out from his gut, searching, searching, searching for the right one. “I guess that makes you interesting, though, which is important if you’re gonna be  _ my  _ nemesis,” 

There was an instant where Lupin’s voice sort of dropped, a heavy blanket of silence half-cutting him off, and he tightened his grip on the inspector’s hand, gaze nervously flicking to and fro, lips just barely parted. He was going to say something. In fact, judging from how his eyes glazed over, brow furrowed, mouth slowly opening and closing and opening once more, he probably  _ needed  _ to otherwise he’d burst. 

He couldn’t seem to spit the words out, though; they appeared to be glued right to the inside of his throat, refusing to let go, no matter how intently he coaxed them from his lips _.  _ Zenigata only stared up at him, expression dull and set in stone, unblinking, unwavering, unamused, and uncharmed. 

This was a trap, he told himself wearily. That bitter taste of Lupin’s usually saccharine voice was probably nothing more than a ruse to lull the inspector into a false sense of security. This entire sympathy act was nothing more than a dirty scheme, and Zenigata had been  _ this  _ close to falling for it just as he had with all of the thief’s other clever tricks. 

But not this time. 

No, this time, he would beat him to the punch, outsmart him. He was tired, and he wasn’t about to let the little weasel win.

_ Not this time.  _

“Lupin,” he began softly, and he knew that if the thief had been any further away, he wouldn’t have been able to hear. But there he was, right beside him in that old, creaking chair, leaning in close with anticipation etched across every line in his cautious face, hands gripping tight, he was a religious man clinging to a rosary crumbling beneath the very tips of his fingers.

“Zenigata?” he asked, tone just as quiet, voice coming out thick. His grip tightened, thumb rubbing against the base of Zenigata’s palm, tracing an old keloid scar that simply refused to fade right at the line of his wrist. He was being so strangely  _ gentle,  _ almost like he feared he would break the inspector if he held him too tightly.

Zenigata shared that fear.

Sniffling in faux indignance, he lightly tugged at his hand, trying to get the message across for the thief to let go. But he didn’t. In fact, he did the very opposite, squeezing tight as though he needed Zenigata’s touch, a desperate plea hiding in his quivering hands, one that could almost feel real if it weren’t for the fact that this was Lupin the Third, master thief and the craftiest man on the planet.

“Let go of me,” the inspector mumbled lightly, at last, realizing that he would actually have to say it if he wanted the man next to him to understand or to even listen. He looked away, pretending that he hadn’t seen the way Lupin’s face dropped like a stone in the ocean. “your hands are too cold.” 

For some time a little less than a moment, nothing happened. A sudden stop in the flow of time as Lupin’s dark eyes flicked across the inspector, widening, expression slipping into something that could’ve almost been despondency had he not been faking it.

But of  _ course,  _ he was faking it, Zenigata thought with strange desperation-- Lupin had fooled him too many times in the past, and he was not about to have the satisfaction of running him through the mud after he had already gone through so much hell on this one, measly fucking case. He wasn’t about to let that happen. He  _ wasn’t.  _

Eventually, he felt those nimble fingers oh so gently place his weak, scarred hands back on the bed. With one last brush against the inspector’s thumb, Lupin moved reluctantly away, folding his own hands and placing them neatly in his lap as he attempted to search Zenigata’s expression for…  _ something. _

The very moment Lupin’s touch was no longer at his skin, Zenigata wished for it back, yearned for the chill of his palms and the way his fingers fluttered so delicately, always gentle, always considerate, always cautious. 

Silence enveloped them once more, solemn and heavy, weighing down on Zenigata’s shoulders and making him sink deeper into the bedsheets. Beneath him, his mattress creaked lightly at the movement, and, as casually as he could, he ran his palms over the comforter that sat atop him, smoothing out any creases that he could find, becoming all too interested in an old brown bloodstain from when he had hurt his nose a few years back. 

Meanwhile, Lupin sat in his chair, legs restless and ever bouncing against the floor, pads of his fingers running along the seams of his pants. His eyes flicked and shifted, anxiety practically radiating from every inch of his skin, cheeks flush with embarrassment after he had been snapped at. 

Zenigata truly wanted to feel guilty for being so catty with the thief, but he forced himself to believe that he was simply using his head, that he was only being safe in his decision to fake annoyance and anger at the man before him. He didn’t want to get too comfortable, for the risk that came with it was all too great. If he were to submit to what his heart ached so deeply for, if Lupin were to ever discover that those damned rumors were all true…

The low, grating noise of the chair scraping against the hardwood made the inspector snap to attention, eyes falling back into focus (though he hadn’t realized they had been unfocused before) as he processed the image of Lupin scooting backward and away from the side of the bed.

“Bored already?” He sneered, hoping with every fiber of his being that the thief was going to leave. He was weak, he was tired, he was so very vulnerable, and he knew that if Lupin showed him the tiniest scrap of kindness, no matter how fake it was, he would succumb to that relentless pounding in his chest. His ribs would break, his knees would buckle, and he would fall. He would  _ let  _ himself fall. 

The somber expression etched into Lupin’s face as he gently shook his head made Zenigata’s stomach drop. 

“Just making coffee,” he replied simply, quietly, monotonously.

The inspector did not reply, instead only eyeing his visitor as, with a light stretch, he got up out of the chair, lips right on the cusp of a yawn, eyes drooping slightly. 

He had probably taken off his jacket upon entering Zenigata’s apartment, for now, only his navy-blue button-down clung to his thin frame, creased and wrinkled in far too many places, the top three buttons loosened to reveal his clavicles and a milky white scar peeking out from his shoulder blade which was still fading from his summer tan. His tie had been loosened, hanging with as much melancholy as a tie could hang around his neck, and a smudge of dirt sat right near the pointed bottom of the expensive Italian fabric. His hair was ruffled, messy, as though he had been constantly running those thin, nimble fingers through it-- was he growing it out? It looked just a tad longer than usual. 

He looked so strangely crestfallen, so very unlike himself, and Zeniata wondered how long Lupin had been awake waiting for him to stir from his feverish slumber.

For a moment, his mouth opened. Not by much, mind you, just barely parting enough for a small sound to get through as he searched the sentences on his tongue for the right one, feeling strangely obligated to at least say  _ something. _ And in response, Lupin was suddenly attentive as ever despite his bushed appearance and perked right up at the barely audible little hum that had come from the sick man.

However, the words died before they could even reach Zenigata’s dry mouth, and, turning away, he shook his head slowly, directing his attention back to the small bloodstain on his sheets. He smoothed the pad of his thumb over it, wondering if a dry-cleaner could possibly get it out, willing himself to ignore the somber look on Lupin’s face that he could see in his peripheral.

For the millionth time, Zenigata attempted to relieve the pounding in his head by rolling over on his side as he lay atop his shitty old mattress. Lupin had left the room about a half-hour ago and the inspector hadn’t heard from him since, and knowing him, he was probably already booking it out of Miyoshi with his trusty gang and, most likely, a few bills from some stupid gullible cop’s wallet. 

Zenigata, however, found that he couldn’t care less about Lupin’s whereabouts just as long as he wasn’t  _ there.  _ Maybe it was just because he was sick, maybe it was just because his resolve was weakening, but every time he even thought about that damned beanpole of a man he felt a new wave of dizziness befall him. He knew that part of it was simply the fever that was still running high and running strong, but he also knew that the cacophony of butterflies in his tummy was certainly not one of the symptoms of a common cold. 

With a soft grunt of discomfort, he attempted to nestle deeper into the stiff, thin pillows that Lupin had haphazardly piled beneath his head. He drew his blanket up closer and closer to his face, dry knuckles kissing the very bottom of his cheek, legs curling up involuntarily like a dead spider as he searched for any sort of warmth in his drafty little bedroom. 

When he found none, he was content to lay in a painfully tight fetal position and think about how nice the sunshine would feel when the springtime finally came. It certainly wasn’t comfortable, but it was as good as it was going to get, and he sighed into the covers, letting his hot, stinging eyes fall closed as his head swam, feeling all too thick and all too heavy.

He knew that he would have to get up soon. He had to make himself dinner-- he hadn’t eaten for about two days, now, was it? Three depending on what time it was at this moment-- and he had to call his boss to tell him what exactly had happened, and he probably had to take a shower. 

For now, though, he figured he might have a few more hours of simply lying in bed, all caught up in his cocoon of blankets and sheets and pillows, warmth trapped in his trembling skin, his entire body icy cold except for his cheeks and his eyelids, which burned so harshly they hurt.

“Are you, ah--” the sudden sound of Lupin’s voice in the doorway made Zenigata sit bolt upright, eyes wrenching themselves open, shock quite evident in every bit of his body language. In response, Lupin smiled apologetically and all too fondly, raising his hands as you would when dealing with a cornered animal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t scare you did I?” He chuckled, closing the door with a quiet  _ click  _ behind him. When had it even opened? 

Heart no longer jackrabbiting away in his chest, Zenigata let himself relax into the mattress, brows furrowing, an annoyed frown on his lips. “Not in the slightest,” he murmured, tone dripping with sarcasm that seemed to be completely ignored judging from the sweet little hum that he received in response. “I thought you left,” Zenigata said plainly as he crossed his arms, bending his legs slightly while he rested against the headboard. 

“Uh, yeah, to make a pot of coffee,” Lupin replied casually, ignoring the chair that he had left on the side of Zenigata’s bed and instead sinking into the mattress, though not before using his hand to gently swat at the inspector’s legs and move them out of the way. Whatever strange tension that had been there when Zenigata had first woken up, whatever odd weight that was tugging at both of their aching bodies and making emotions all too heavy… it was all gone. Instead, in its place, was lighthearted companionship. “which, admittedly didn’t take long,” the thief continued, resting his elbow on the inspector’s knee. “but I didn’t want to come back in immediately in case you had fallen asleep again,”

“So what did you do in the meantime?” 

“Snooped through all of your belongings and discovered your darkest secrets,” 

“I don’t know what I expected,” Zenigata muttered, and he hated how the relief of seeing Lupin return to his usual self flooded every inch of his body, crashing over him like a wave, leaving him defenseless and so horribly soft. 

When the thief turned to look at him, head tilting in that sweet way it so often did, the skin around his eyes crinkling so lightly as his shallow dimples made themselves known in the smile that graced his lips, Zenigata was unable to help the way his heart perked up excitedly.

“Well, I’m glad you’re awake,” he said, winking playfully yet, somehow, quite earnestly as he occupied himself with a loose string dangling from the blanket. “I just wanted to come and check on you. You know, see if you were feeling any better,”

“I didn’t feel all that bad in the first place,” Zenigata lied, though he wasn’t sure why. 

“Aw, c’mon, Pops, don’t do this. I’m setting aside my pride for you, y’know-- I’m willing to be your humble servant ‘til you get better. The least you could do is tell me how you feel,” Lupin frowned, and his hands fell still, resting atop the mattress in idle casualty. 

_ As if,  _ Zenigata thought. “I guess I owe you that much for… well, saving my life,” he sighed, thumping his back lightly against the headboard as he leaned on it fully. “I’m alright. Just a little dizzy, a little weak. Nothing big,” 

“You’re such a stubborn ass, you know that?” 

“So I’ve been told. Will you leave me alone now that I’ve told you the truth?” 

“No, of course not. I’m still going to stay ‘til you get better.  _ Someone  _ has to,” 

At this, Zenigata scowled. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” He grumped, brow furrowing as he eyed Lupin with exasperation. It was hard to stay mad, however, at the warm expression returned to him. 

“Don’t get so defensive,” Lupin teased, arching a thin brow, the very corner of his sly mouth quirking upward. “I’m just sayin’ that if you aren’t supervised, you’ll try and trot back into work the minute you can stand up without passing the hell out, and I can’t have you off your game next time you go back to Interpol,” 

“First of all, you’re wrong,” Zenigata huffed. Lupin was not, in fact, wrong. “and second, why not? You’re not the boss of me, you prick, if I want to go into work tomorrow then I damn well will,” 

“You won’t be. That’s exactly why I’m here. See what I mean?” Lupin laughed, and Zenigata, realizing that he had just made the thief’s point for him, shrunk back into the mattress, cheeks ablaze. 

“So, you’re trapped here.  _ I’m  _ trapped here, at least ‘til you’re not trapped here anymore. So can’t I just do this?” Lupin asked, a hint of urgency hidden behind a relaxed demeanor. “For you?” He added, placing his hand on Zenigata’s knee and squeezing lightly, and through the pads of his fingertips, there was desperation. This was a plea more than it was a request. And although Zenigata knew that he was merely acting, even though deep in his gut he could feel that this was nothing more than a lie… oh, how could he possibly say no to a face like that?

“...You’re insufferable,” he sighed, frowning deeply, though it felt good to surrender even if he had to keep his wits about him and stay on his toes. 

“So that’s a yes?” Lupin smiled, hand still lingering on Zenigata’s knee, absently rubbing little circles into the fabric of the blanket with his pinkie finger. 

“It’s a maybe,”

“Oh, so it  _ is  _ a yes,” Lupin hummed, and Zenigata absolutely hated himself for noticing the flicker of lamplight gleaming against his dark eyes. “in that case, I guess I’ll go start dinner,”

“Dinner?” Zenigata asked, frowning. “Just how long was I out?” 

“All night yesterday-- though, to be fair, it was already pretty late when you went and fainted on me-- and then all day today. It’s about 7 PM,” 

“You eat dinner at 7 PM?” Zenigata asked, completely ignoring everything else that had been said. 

“Hmm, well, at least I eat dinner,” 

“Touché,” 

“My point has been made. Now, you hang tight, I’ll go whip something up,” Lupin clapped his hands together, grinning a grin that was so sweet, so strange and foreign on his face, that the inspector couldn’t help but gawk. If Lupin noticed, he didn’t say anything, instead opting to take this moment of awestruck silence to push himself up and off of the bed, mattress whining loudly in protest, the little dip that had formed when he first sat down returning to its original state. 

Suddenly, almost as though a switch had been flipped, Zenigata sat up straight.

“Wait,” he said, his attempt at sounding stern though it came out more as a soft, simple request. 

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” Lupin asked, bending slightly forward and holding out his hands, almost as though he were trying to push Zenigata back down into the bed, gentle intentions so clear in his concerned eyes. 

“Nothing, I just… well, I mean,” the inspector began, not entirely sure how he was going to phrase what he was going to say next. As a rule of thumb, the guest  _ never  _ cooked-- at least that was how his mother raised him-- and despite his awful health and the fact that Lupin was less of a guest and more of an intruder, that classic Zenigata Family Guilt wasn’t something he could just forget about. “I can cook, it’s fine,” he finished, simply settling for an offer rather than explaining that he was deeply uncomfortable with the notion of somebody taking care of him, as he simply wasn’t brought up to be taken care of. 

“What? No, silly, you should be resting, I--”

“No, really, I’m fine,”

“You know, you _ could  _ use this time to boss me around. It’s not like I can fight a sick man,” 

“Oh, please, don’t give me your pity. Let me cook, you don’t know my apartment like I do,” Zenigata rolled his eyes, and began the perilous journey of standing up, tossing the blankets off of his legs with a rather dramatic flourish. However, he was met with instantaneous regret, a chill sticking itself to his lower half and sending goosebumps flaring all throughout his legs. He ignored the feeling and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, which creaked loudly as he began to slide down, dizziness blurring his vision.

“Ah, wait!” Lupin yelped, taking several quick, anxious steps forward, reaching out with gentle yet frantic hands, ones that obviously didn’t know where to go or what to do, so they simply landed on the closest body parts they could find. 

When one of Lupin’s palms pushed itself into Zenigata’s shoulder and the other took careful hold of his wrist, the inspector felt as though his lungs had been squeezed tight ‘til they were empty, and then there he was, breathless, speechless, motionless. 

“Your head,” the thief continued softly, totally disregarding the way Zenigata was gazing up at him as though he had hung the God damned moon. “I don’t think you should stand up. Your lips are so pale, you look so queasy. You might pass out again if you move,” 

Zenigata, who was probably more used to close quarters with Lupin the Third than anybody aside from his gang, found that he didn’t know how to react in this situation. In fact, it took him quite a while to even open his mouth, muscles simply refusing to work altogether as he struggled to part his lips in order to tell Lupin to fuck off or something equally as rude. Apparently, though, such an action was impossible, and all he managed to whisper was a small “I’m fine,” which, for some unknown reason, made Lupin smile. And oh, God,  _ wow,  _ what a smile. 

“You’re so stubborn, Pops. But I guess you already knew that since I’ve already told you that tonight, huh?” The thief hummed, and there was a sort of affectionate warmth to his voice that Zenigata both hated with every single cell in his body and longed for more than anything else in the entirety of the world. “Alright, fine, I won’t cook all by myself, you can help me if you want, you little freak,” 

“Well then since that’s settled, will you let go of me?” Zenigata huffed, wanting to cross his arms before realizing that, in doing so, Lupin would need to let go of his wrist. And he very obviously hadn’t done that. Zenigata wondered if he could feel his pulse through the contact. A strange part of him hoped that he could, but every other logical part hoped that he couldn’t. 

“No, absolutely not. Can’t have you blacking out on me again,” the thief teased and stepped back so that he could gently tug at the inspector’s arm, indicating that he should stand up. “I’ll help you, okay?”

“I’m okay, you dumbass, I’m not a baby. I can get up by myself,” Zenigata scoffed and rolled his eyes, ignoring the amused glimmer in Lupin’s eyes who slowly loosened his grip on the man’s wrist before letting go completely. 

With a grunt, Zenigata pushed himself up off of the bed, knees cracking as he straightened out, suddenly able to feel the effects of sleeping in his rickety little bed for a full day in the muscles of his back. 

The very moment he was up to his full height, darkness began to cloud at the edge of his vision, stars swirling black and white in front of him, and his head spun uncomfortably like it had just been thrown football style across a vat of petroleum jelly. Lupin could only be seen in orange-tinted glimpses and the cream color of his wallpaper had turned suspiciously grey. Hoping that it would help him clear his head or his vision or, preferably both, he tried to take a clumsy, shaky step forward only to have his knees buckle almost immediately. 

His stomach dropped quickly as he fell, preparing with bated breath to crash onto the ground, hoping that the bruise wouldn’t be too bad if there was even a bruise at all, head far too hazy to focus or concentrate on anything other than the fact that he was so weak and exhausted that he didn’t even care about his trip to the hardwood floor.

Of course, though, he was not met with the floor.

Instead, he found himself to be leaning heavily on Lupin’s shoulder, who had slung the inspector’s weary arm over himself in an attempt to steady him. 

“Woah, there,” he chuckled softly, his warm breath tickling the skin of Zenigata’s cheek. “are you alright?” 

“I’m fine. You can let me go now,” Zenigata was quick to try and wriggle away, shuffling as far away as he could, hoping that the message that he didn’t need or want any help came across clearly. It hadn’t.

Or, maybe it had, but the thief didn’t care, not even in the slightest. 

Lupin quickly wrapped his free arm ‘round Zenigata’s waist, pulling him ever closer, fingers burning scorch marks all the way through the fabric of his sweater, flame-drenched palms on candlewax skin. 

“I will just as soon as we make it to the living room, okay?” He said, and who was Zenigata to argue with such a sweet tone? “Just walk with me, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” 

The repetition of that last phrase sat so odd and so heavy right in the pit of Zenigata’s stomach that he didn’t complain. Instead, he allowed himself to be led across the floorboards, feet shuffling slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, not realizing just how drained he felt ‘til he was actually trying to move. 

The weeks of ignoring his rapidly declining health were finally catching up to him, hitting him harder than a freight train, and every step felt akin to a nuclear bomb going off in the back of his skull. He could barely even think, only able to focus on Lupin’s hands on his body as, slowly, patiently, deliberately, the pair shuffled across the floor. 

Just how long had it been since he had seen Lupin? Really, actually, and truly seen him? Not in passing, not in awkward run-ins that left the inspector feeling queasy and lightheaded, not in short glimpses on the television or the radio, but  _ been  _ with him? Worked alongside him? When was the last time he had been able to soak up the presence of this man, the very one whose sandy heart slipped right between the trembling cracks in Zenigata’s fingers? 

He knew that he should despise this, knew that he should feel guilty and shameful beyond all reason that his most formidable foe, his destined rival, his arch-nemesis, was currently helping him walk across his own home. That his tender gaze lingered for several seconds too long, that with every touch of his cold hands electricity jolted throughout the inspector’s body. 

But he didn’t.

There was guilt, yes, and there was shame, of course, but it was for different reasons. Reasons that he pretended weren’t there, reasons that he tried to forget about, reasons that made moments such as this so much more worthwhile. Reasons that made him know that as the weather got worse and the winter wore on, this very memory would ease those lonely December nights. Reasons that made him want to relax into the comforting touch that was guiding him along his chilly floors even though he knew that he couldn’t, for to do that was to succumb to the little flutters and thumps of his bleeding heart. 

“Here we go,” Lupin’s quiet voice snapped the inspector free of his rambling thoughts, and he blinked, realizing for the first time that he was standing above his couch, the olive cushions slightly flattened from all of the times he had slept on them instead of in bed. 

“I thought I was going to help you cook,” Zenigata snorted, arching a quizzical eyebrow at the thief, who merely began to help lower him onto the couch, hands falling in far too many places in order to keep him steady. “I can sit down myself, you know,” the inspector huffed. 

Lupin, however, merely shook his head, hands still lingering atop the inspector’s shoulders even after he was resting fully on the couch, legs slowly shifting to pull themselves up onto the cushions, back unable to help but recline onto the armrest as slowly, slowly, slowly, Zenigata slid down with the aid of the thief’s gentle guidance. 

“I know you can,” he responded after a moment, and the palm of his left hand, Zenigata noticed, slowly began to inch towards his cheek. However, as though touching something sharp, something dangerous, he drew it back, worrying his lower lip. Zenigata pretended not to notice, or at least not to care, for he was still half-certain that the kindness Lupin had been showing all day was nothing more than an act. It had to be. It had to be.  _ It had to be.  _

“Now then,” Lupin smiled, clapping his hands together as he stood up fully and walked away from the couch, yellow socks half sliding across the rug and onto the unusually clean tile of the kitchen. “I looked through your cabinets earlier while you were still unconscious, and discovered that you don’t have jack shit. Which didn’t surprise me, and I had honestly been expecting it,” the thief opened the refrigerator, and Zenigata craned his neck to look at what he was doing. “so I went out and did your grocery shopping,” 

As if to emphasize this fact, Lupin pulled out several bags of vegetables from the fridge, including sugar snap peas, red and green bell peppers, carrots, broccoli, and several others that the inspector wasn’t quite able to make out behind the thin, rustling plastic bags.

Zenigata blushed softly, unsure of how to properly react to something so… so strangely intimate. It was such a simple act, and really it shouldn’t mean anything at all to him, but what an oddly domestic thing for somebody like Lupin to do. 

“You…” He began, still attempting to process the gesture. “you did that?” was all he managed to say.

From behind the cabinets containing old, cheap plastic cutting boards, cookie sheets, and two beetle-green drying racks that Zenigata had found at a yard sale, Lupin smiled, though his attention was not fully on the inspector. “Of course,” he chuckled, laying out an ugly orange cutting board and a large, broad knife with a dark red handle. “I mean, it’s not like  _ you  _ were able to. You were out cold, and I mean  _ really  _ out cold. It wasn’t a problem, I didn’t have anything to do anyway,”

“Well you could’ve left,” Zenigata found himself frowning.

“I know that,” 

“So then why didn’t you?” 

Instead of answering, however, Lupin busied himself by pulling the vegetables out of their plastic prisons and padding over to the sink. He took a brief moment to paw around the countertop before he spotted the strainer dangling lazily from a hook near the window. Reaching out, he took it in his left hand and held it delicately over the sink, dumping the sugar snap peas and broccoli into the mesh before wadding up the plastic and tossing it to the side. With a casual flick of his wrist, he turned the water on, staring at the way it poured over the vegetables, droplets flicking off from the main stream and clinging to his hand, the countertop, the handle on the strainer.

“Lupin?” Zenigata asked, still patiently waiting for an answer to his previous inquiry, letting himself sink deeper into the couch. For a moment, he tried to search the man for answers, eyes flicking across his features, but soon realized that the back of Lupin’s neck didn’t reveal much about what he was thinking. 

“Why would I?” He said with such abruptness that the inspector damn near flinched. Slowly, Lupin turned around, a pensive sort of half-frown on his face, strainer full of vegetables sitting in the sink, and a bundle of carrots that he had yet to rinse off held in his hands. “It’s not like I could’ve just left you in the snow. You would die,” 

“My coworker was there,” Zenigata responded.

“Oh, yeah, and what would she do? Toss you in the back of her car and drive you back to her apartment?”

“Yes?” 

“Well, still, I doubt she would’ve done it… correctly. She probably wouldn’t have gotten you out of your wet clothes. I’m sure she wouldn’t know how to prevent you from losing a fingernail or two,”

“Yes she would, she’s trained to know about these situations,” 

“Yeah, well. I was closest,” Lupin sniffed, and with that, he turned back around to the sink, and the sound of running water seemed much louder than it had earlier. 

With a soft huff, Zenigata slid further down the couch until his head was propped up on the armrest, eyes still locked on the back of Lupin’s head, staring at a mole that sat right on the side of his neck. 

Why had he gotten so defensive about something so trivial? Something so unimportant, so silly? Surely none of that mattered to him, right? Surely he didn’t  _ want  _ to be doing this. 

Zenigata meditated on that thought for a moment. 

Lupin was a selfish man, and that was a fact. He was a weasel, a dirty scoundrel, a thief that took whatever he wanted. Greed was his gut instinct-- it was always more, more, and  _ more  _ when it came to him, and he did everything in his power to make sure that he got what he wanted. Drugs, money, booze, women, sex, jewels,  _ everything,  _ it was all his for the taking and oh, how he took. He made messes just for fun, didn’t care if bystanders lost their jobs or their life savings or their property so long as he was able to get his kicks, so long as, in the end, he was bathing in luxuries that would last for maybe three months tops before he found himself drowning in debt and the most expensive hangover the world had ever seen. 

And he loved it. 

He lived for that constant cycle of taking and losing, rinse, and repeat. He was self-destructive in every sense of the manner, and he knew it, and he  _ loved it.  _

But he wasn’t morally bad. Lupin the Third is a bad person, sure, but he’s not a  _ bad person.  _

It was so obvious how deeply he cared for his gang, which at this point, might as well be considered his family. He was always thinking about them, and Zenigata knew this because he talked about them  _ constantly--  _ always laughing at something Jigen said or wondering whether or not Goemon would like this “authentic” Japanese restaurant he found somewhere in New Jersey a while back (he did not) and swooning over the fact that Fujiko sidestepped and backstabbed him yet again, but the way she did it was “so incredibly hot, if you were there you’d understand.” He made sure they were safe, he would fight tooth and nail for them, never once letting them fall too deeply into the hands of danger so long as he had something to say about it. 

Not only was he passionate and loving towards his little gaggle of ne’er-do-wells, but this strange, kind softness extended to the world around him. He was surprisingly fantastic with children, and although he couldn’t care less about property damage, he was probably the only world-renowned thief that had avoided casualties that were caused by him. He was so romantic, saw everything rose-tinted and wonderful, he lived his life on cloud nine and he was going to make sure that everybody else knew it and felt it and lived it with him. 

He had shown Zenigata this pink hazy world of his too. Several times, in fact. 

Quiet nights, quieter conversations, a shared bottle of wine or cider or beer or whatever alcoholic beverage they could get their hands on. He had told the inspector surprisingly intimate details about himself, things that he said he hadn’t told anybody else before, things that he knew that he shouldn’t say around the very police officer assigned to take him down, but he did anyway. Lupin allowed himself to trust Zenigata, allowed the inspector to come into his life as more than just a rival, allowed the tired old cop to bask in his warmth just as he allowed everybody else. 

So, with that in mind, was it possible that he truly wanted to help? That he wanted to be there for Zenigata, wanted to take care of him, make him feel better? 

Zenigata supposed that Lupin could’ve left long, long ago if he wanted to. He didn’t need to help out in any way, shape, or form, wasn’t obligated to in the very slightest. 

So perhaps there was the slightest, tiniest chance that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ this was a task that he didn’t mind all too much. And for now, as the inspector watched Lupin’s clever fingers work quickly to start peeling a small patch in an oddly shaped chunk of ginger with lazy, sleepy eyes, that was enough. 

“What’re you staring at?” Lupin asked with the slightest hint of amusement between the scraping sounds of the spoon in his hand grinding across the ginger’s skin. Behind him, one of the gas burners was lit, and a wok containing garlic and olive oil was sizzling happily away, filling the kitchen with a familiar, cozy aroma. It stung at Zenigata’s eyes, which were drooping ever so slightly. 

“Hm? Oh, sorry,” the inspector murmured, feeling himself begin to relax just a little more than he had earlier. “just something on my mind, didn’t know I was looking at you,” 

“Fair. What were you thinking about?” He took a short moment to look down at the ginger in his hand, decided that the spot he had been working at was peeled enough, chopped off the skinless portion, and lay it atop the cutting board. Carefully and slowly, as to not damage his fingers by accident, he began to cut thin slices. 

“No way am I telling you that,” Zenigata snorted in reply, voice playful, content in the gentle back and forth between the pair. 

“Oooh, I see. You were thinking about me then, right? Dirty thoughts, no doubt,” 

Zenigata rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like I’d be interested in somebody that looks like a silly straw,”

(He was. And that was the embarrassing part of it all.) 

“You’re so awful to me, you know that? Here I am, cooking for you, making sure you haven’t died, and what am I given in return?  _ Nothing!”  _

“I never asked you to cook for me, you know,” 

“Yeah, but I figured you might want to eat something with a little bit more flavor than a ramen packet,” 

Zenigata rolled his eyes. “Please. I’ve eaten more than just ramen noodles over the course of these last several weeks,” 

“Like what? A stick of gum?” 

“You’re a dick,”

“A dick that can cook,”

“No you can’t, you nimrod, I’ve tasted your cooking before,” 

“I wasn’t finished,” Lupin sniffed in indignance. “a dick that can cook  _ stir fry,”  _

“Ahhh, I guess I was wrong about you,” Zenigata laughed softly, and he found that his eyes simply couldn’t be torn away from the way the thief’s nimble fingers maneuvered around the knife he was currently holding. 

He had pondered Lupin’s hands before, but this felt different. This felt like something new, something that he hadn’t ever noticed or experienced before. Because yes, he knew just how crafty those clever fingers could be as they slipped silently into a safe, as they clicked themselves free of whatever pair of cuffs they had found themselves in, that they were graceful and elegant in their mannerism but so rough, cracked knuckles and palms lined with star charts of scars and cuts. 

So sure, Zenigata knew Lupin’s hands and he knew them to be swift and harsh and sharp in their ways. 

But he had never known the domesticity of the way he chopped up carrots as he did now. 

There was something oddly personal about it, so strangely selfless. 

Cooking was  _ always  _ so strangely selfless.

It made such unreal, ethereal, faultless people such as Lupin seem just a bit more human, as there was always error in cooking.

Even now, watching with sleepy, hazy eyes from the couch, Zenigata saw as the thief messed up the rhythm of his knife and cut something entirely too big or so small that it couldn’t be used. He would drop chunks of vegetable all across the floor and the stove as he scraped the unevenly cut ingredients into the wok from the cutting board, would misplace his knife damn near every single time he put it down for a mere second, would miscalculate the amount of brown sugar he needed or accidentally slosh just a tad too much soy sauce overtop the steaming, sizzling bouts of produce. 

At this very moment, this cold, December moment trapped in the poorly insulated walls of the tiny Miyoshi apartment, Lupin the Third was little more than a mortal in a kitchen with the most beautiful hands the inspector had ever seen in his life, and by God, Zenigata was in love with him. 

But he couldn’t say that. 

He couldn’t even hint at it.

In some odd way, though, in some secret language that he prayed with everything in his being Lupin didn’t understand, he could still admit it.

So when Lupin looked up at him from the kitchen, bathed in the warm light from the small lamps illuminating the walls and painting everything brown and gold, smiling as though nothing could ever be more divine than this strange, strange moment, and said 

“There you go again, staring like a corpse. What’re you thinking about this time?” 

Zenigata could only reply with “I like watching your hands when you cook,” 

And that seemed to be enough. 

Lupin did not reply, but instead only hummed a soft sound of acknowledgment, the slightest hint of a smile so very delicate on his lips. And perhaps that was all Zenigata needed, for when he found that smile, when he heard that gentle hum, the butterflies in his gut flittered excitedly, threatening to crawl up his throat and spill out his mouth. 

But he managed to swallow them and was content to watch Lupin work just a little bit longer, the edges of his vision fading away, his body feeling weak and limp atop the shitty couch that was surely going to give him pain when he woke up from whatever nap he didn’t know was creeping upon him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wish more than anything in the entire world i had a gd persimmon in my hand. dont know what the fuck a persimmon even looks or tastes like but golly it sure sounds nice goodnight


	10. your stupid selfish love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision must be made, Lupin knows this. A thief, however, is a creature of greed, and how could somebody so ravenous for the world ever decide something so difficult?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty sure the reason why everything i write is so ooc is bc my intro to lupin was cagliostro, n that in itself is very ooc and i really dug that n rolled with it 😔 i probably will write grittier and more in-character things in the future since i love to play around with mean lupin (i already have a buncha more serious wips lyin around 💔) but i have a little mushy peabrain and i love sappy stuff

Lupin’s stir fry was sitting cold and neglected in the wok it resided in, the brisk air coming from the broken kitchen window having chilled it to gross levels. If anybody wanted to have it, then they would have to heat it up again-- but, of course, there was nobody there to eat it. Or, well, there was, but neither seemed to be quite fit for eating at the moment, both far too occupied with themselves as it were. 

When the thief had, at last, clicked the gas burner on the stove off and turned around, smile light on his lips, heart dancing around in his chest, his eyes had immediately fallen upon Zenigata, who had curled up on the couch that Lupin had helped him onto. His cheek smooshed gracelessly atop the armrest, arms and legs drawn as close as they could to his body, most likely to keep warm. Of course, though, his legs were far too long for such a tiny piece of furniture, so his knees hung awkwardly over the side of the cushions.

At first, Lupin thought he had merely found a more comfortable position and was still watching with a softened gaze as the intruder in his kitchen hustled and bustled around, trying to cook something edible for once in his life. Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that Zenigata had fallen asleep, his breathing regulated, slow, deep, his dry, cracked lips parted  _ just  _ so, eyelashes fluttering. He must’ve been dreaming. 

So, being the incredible gentleman that he was, Lupin rooted around the living room for any sort of blanket he could find (there was a decorative yellow and brown checkered one hanging off of the back of a lounge chair just near the window, but Lupin hadn’t noticed it until he was on the verge of giving up), throwing it over Zenigata with a strange sort of ache deep in the pit of his chest. However, it was a different ache, the kind that makes you feel sick and tired and empty and small, the kind that comes with realizing that the person you love won’t ever love you back. No matter what any sort of rumors said. 

Just because Lupin felt as though there was a hole in the shape of the most scraggly, tired man he had ever seen right in his heart, he couldn’t just up and leave. Not when Zenigata was so damn  _ sick,  _ not when it was clear that he needed somebody to stay with him lest he get too guilty for being in his apartment and try to go back to work. Lupin knew that he would-- his mind worked in curious, sickening ways, and the shame of not being “productive,” no matter what the circumstances may be, would always tie the inspector down with fat heavy chains. That could be said about a lot of things in Zenigata’s life, though-- guilt tended to control his life more than he did. Guilt tended to rule his emotions, guilt tended to reign solidly on each and every one of his decisions. He was a very guilty man. 

As Lupin smoothed down a fold of the blanket right at the gentle swell from Zenigata’s waist to his hip, he wished that he wasn’t. 

His hands lingered on the warmth of Zenigata’s body, not so much resting as they were barely brushing over him. He didn’t want to apply pressure, he was too scared to touch the man directly because he knew he would get hurt. 

So he simply allowed the ghost of his palm to barely even kiss the very surface of the blanket, eyes feeling heavy but not tired, stomach churning sickly despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything properly in several hours. 

Standing up slowly, partially to not disturb the man sleeping feverishly below him and partially to avoid hurling his guts up, he thought hard about what Jigen had said on that icy cold night. 

_ C’mon, man. You’ve done this before. And if you keep denying it, you’ll only hurt yourself.  _

He scoffed, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in what could have been contempt, but probably wasn’t anything more than dejectedness. 

“I’ll only hurt myself if I keep denying it, eh Jigen?” He muttered bitterly under his breath, carefully turning away from the couch and shoving his hands forcefully into the pockets of his pants, slowly but surely padding across the hardwood floor, cringing at every moan in the floorboards. “Seems to me like admitting it only made it worse,”

He knew that right now he was angry, but it wasn’t directed at anybody other than himself. Plus, it also wouldn’t last long-- soon, any sort of animosity he felt would slowly fade away and leave him with nothing but a strange, quiet sort of sadness. One that he wasn’t entirely sure he had felt before except on one other occasion, and that was a little over twenty years ago when he was still just a stupid teenager and he wasn’t sure what  _ any  _ of his emotions meant. 

As silently as possible, he ever so slowly turned the handle to Zenigata’s bedroom, opening it and willing the unoiled hinges not to groan in protest as he pulled the wooden door open. 

“We probably should’ve spruced this thing up a little when we were cleaning,” he muttered, biting his lip as the enormously loud  _ squeeeaak  _ of the hinges filled his ears. 

He didn’t open it all the way in fear of producing more noise, so instead, he kept it cracked and pressed himself hard up against the wall, ignoring the uncomfortable rounded edge of a tack digging harshly into the flesh between his shoulder blades as, tip-toed and quiet, he began to sidle in through the slightly opened door, sucking in his stomach and turning his head to try and make himself as flat as possible. 

He wasn’t entirely sure as to why he was being so overly cautious; Zenigata was a deep, heavy sleeper, and he would be able to snooze peacefully right on through Armageddon. Still, though, Lupin had already crept into his cold, drafty bedroom, continuing to be as light on his feet as he could. He knew that he wouldn’t wake the man snoring gently away on the couch, but that didn’t stop him from being scared of doing just that. 

Light as a feather, he slunk across the hardwood floor, frowning lightly, trying to ignore the fact that the alarm clock on Zenigata’s nightstand read somewhere close to four in the morning. He was gonna be damn tired tomorrow, that was for certain. 

He eyed his red jacket which he had slung haphazardly over the back of an office chair and hoped that he still had a few cigarettes left. He supposed that he didn’t  _ have  _ to smoke if he was all out-- that, or he could steal some of Zenigata’s even though he hated the taste and feel of them (but he loved how they smelled. Or, rather, he loved the way Zenigata’s clothes smelled after he smoked them). Whatever the case, he was in desperate need of a smoke, too exhausted and stressed and  _ sad  _ to avoid his favorite oral fixation. 

His jacket, he observed solemnly, had a few new wrinkles near the arms and front, which most likely happened due to the fact that he had been so careless with it when throwing it over the chair. He would have to iron it later-- Pops probably had one hidden away in one of the closets Lupin and his friends had found while they were cleaning-- but for now, his number one priority and focus was directed at the inner pocket, which contained his beloved carton of Gitanes. 

As he approached the old, worn down chair, he reached out to pull it closer to him, the wheels struggling to budge on the floor ‘til he yanked a little harder at the back of it than he had earlier. He met it halfway, chest bumping softly against the peeling layer of foam to cushion the seat, and his hands immediately began to roam. 

He slid them softly down the fronts of his jacket, searching for that tell-tale bulge that would let him know everything that he needed, brow furrowing slightly when he wasn’t able to find anything the first time around. So, the  _ second  _ time around, when his palms ran over the expensive, soft fabric, he was a little slower, a little more cautious. 

Lupin patted and prodded and poked every inch of his jacket, spinning the chair around to face him as he grew more frantic, realizing that he must’ve dropped his cigarettes back at the Barnetts’ shitty little hideout. By now, they were definitely under at  _ least  _ a foot of snow, and even if they weren’t, it wasn’t like he was going to drive all the way back out just so he could root around for an hour and be met with cold, wet, useless cigarettes. 

With an exasperated sigh, he leaned back and away from the chair, hands finding themselves on his hips, drumming restlessly at his sides as he began to turn in place, gaze darting to and fro as to locate Zenigata’s big trenchcoat, which Lupin had quite carelessly shucked off while panicking about hypothermia (which the inspector wouldn’t have gotten-- he wasn’t passed out in the snow for more than thirty seconds. The very instant he hit the ground, Lupin was all over him, damn near to the point of tears as he tried to haul him back to the car). 

It took him a moment to spot it, doing a few double-takes of the room with a scrunched nose and an arched brow, but at last, sitting crumpled and useless on the floor just near the foot of the bed was a bundle of tan that couldn’t be anything but Zenigata’s coat. So, Lupin made his way toward it, forgetting about being quiet, not caring about the creak of the floorboards or the awkward  _ thump  _ when he had tripped over practically nothing on his way. 

As he stooped down to gather up the coat in his hands, turning it and bunching it over in search for the pockets, he chewed on the thought of pressing the tattered old thing, maybe even washing and drying it just to get the stench of cigarettes and packets of ramen flavoring out from the fabric. God knows Zenigata wouldn’t do it; he wasn’t the type of person to wash his own clothes, it seemed. Or he was, but only when he was in the mood and right mental state and there weren’t any inconveniences and he had the damned motivation to get up and do it-- so, in other words, he probably only managed to get up and do his laundry once in a blue moon when the stars aligned. 

Maybe, Lupin thought with a small sniff, pausing his search for cigarettes to simply run his palm across the old, familiar fabric, he and the others should’ve washed his clothes while cleaning his apartment. The only problem with that, though, was the fact that he would probably notice-- having less dust and grime in your home is one thing, something that you can most likely forget in a few days, but having freshly washed clothes after not even touching your laundry for days? Zenigata could be oblivious, sure, but he wasn’t stupid. Or, at least, he wasn’t  _ that  _ stupid. 

Since he was already here, though, and he had already cooked the inspector dinner (though it had gone completely untouched by either of them), he supposed washing a few loads of laundry wouldn’t be too outlandish. In fact, it was almost  _ required  _ at this point seeing as Lupin had insisted upon staying and caring for the sick man passed out on the couch in the other room. 

Still considering and weighing his options, Lupin scrunched up his nose and once more continued to rifle through the coat, pads of his fingers running along familiar seams, poking through holes and small rips that he had long since memorized; he knew every detail about this stupid damned trenchcoat all the way down to the tag that hid right at the nape. He had stolen it so many times to impersonate Zenigata that he was constantly on the brink of taking a nice pair of scissors to said tag, as it had tickled and scratched uncomfortably at his neck several times, and he knew damn well that Zenigata wasn’t likely to remove it soon. 

When his hand brushed over the neatly seamed flap of a pocket, he slowly slipped it inside, the fabric shifting from cotton to linen, fingers wiggling around absently, searching the expanse of it for that tell-tale cheap cardboard box of off-brand gas station cigarettes, the type that tasted a little the word “stale” itself and smelled a little odd when anybody other than Zenigata was smoking them. 

At last, the knuckle of his pinkie came into contact with something within the pocket, but it was certainly  _ not _ a carton of cheap smokes. 

He furrowed his brow, prodding at the object from within the pocket, and eventually taking hold of it. Cold to the touch, hard to the touch, oddly familiar to the touch, he slipped it out of the coat, pad of his thumb running over a smooth, glossy surface. He caught a glimpse of silver, one that he knew he recognized for  _ sure,  _ and for a moment, his breath hitched as, at last, from the confines of Zenigata’s coat, he pulled forth his (disgustingly expensive) Rolex watch. 

He had the piece custom made  _ ages  _ ago for a birthday present to himself, and Jigen so dearly loved to tease him about the ridiculousness of spending so much money on something as simple as a watch. Clearly, he didn’t understand the importance of dressing for high society, especially when you were little more than street trash. 

When Lupin had come back to the hotel he had hunkered down in just a little while back, he found his left wrist to be bare and completely devoid of the watch he prided himself for. He, of course, had been devastated, all the while Jigen laughed that he was too materialistic (Goemon agreed, the little shit) and Fujiko looked suspiciously anxious to get out of the hotel and “help look for something so exquisite and pricey.” 

Lupin had looked everywhere at first, though he had completely failed to consider searching in the last place he had it on which was Zenigata’s dinky apartment. Why he hadn’t thought of this place sooner, he didn’t know, but that wasn’t the point. None of this was. 

No, the point was that Zenigata had found the watch and kept it safe inside of his coat pocket for however long it had been since Lupin lost it. 

Sure, it was plausible he could’ve forgotten all about it and just left it there by accident, but even the inspector knew that a Rolex had an  _ immense  _ amount of value behind it, especially one like Lupin’s (it took fucking months to pay it off, but damn, was it worth it!). If he had sold it, he probably would’ve been able to afford some decent clothes or a decent meal, or at least he would have a nice chunk of money he could put into savings so that he could live somewhere that didn’t look like a hole forcefully carved into a wall (sure, he did a good job of making his apartment look somewhat liveable, but this place was, to put it as simply and politely as he could, an absolute shithole). 

Lupin worried at his lower lip, pondering the watch for a few moments more before, gently, he stuffed Zenigata’s coat beneath his armpit and fiddled with the cold, silver clasps, the ones that were completely and utterly unadjustable, for they would only fit one wrist: his. The very second he unclasped them, he rather awkwardly began to do that terribly embarrassing little dance of attempting to put something on with only one hand, poking his tongue out through his teeth, huffing in frustration, brow furrowed and concentrated on nothing more than the watch. 

Finally, after what felt like years of clumsy maneuvering, he was twisting it around on his thin, bony wrist so that the glistening blue face was looking upward, still as stunning as it had always been, and Lupin couldn’t help but sigh in relief to see that it hadn’t been lost forever. He would really have to pay Zenigata back for this one, but he would have to think of the how of it all later, for right now, he still had a goal in mind, and that goal was most likely tucked away in the other side of the good inspector’s coat. 

Once more, he began to rumple and slide his fingers through the fabric, though he went just a tad slower this time. No longer desperate and in a hurry to smoke, he took his time, finding that he had begun to bite at his lower lip as he stared down with the kind of a gaze that was far too fond for anybody such as Lupin to possess. 

He was fairly quick to shake it off when, finally, he slid his hand into another pocket, index finger accidentally pushing into a small hole that must have poked through the inside of the pocket from so many incidents where the inspector would, in frustration or submission or some other intense and in-the-moment emotion, shove his enormous hands carelessly into the pockets. 

Almost immediately, he found what he was looking for, and gave a triumphant little huff as he yanked out the carton of cheap cigarettes, grin tired and loose on his lips, thumb running over a logo that he didn’t recognize. 

Unlike most things of Zenigata-- like his clothes and his favorite food and the lines of his palms and the wrinkles around his eyes and the freckles dotting his nose-- Lupin was never quite able to map out and memorize the cigarettes he smoked. This was all due to the simple fact that it was practically _impossible_ to; he didn’t have any rhyme or reason for the brand he bought, and it changed almost every time. There were two instances where he tried sticking to one brand of cigarette for a month-- Mild Seven and Camel, in August and December of 1986 respectively-- but quickly found that trying to be on brand was completely useless and so horribly tedious. 

In fact, Lupin had once asked him about his preferred type, for he was planning on buying him a little present for White Day so that he wouldn’t look so… dour (Lupin noticed that every year on every holiday, Zenigata spent his time alone and working, and it was only a matter of time before the thief started to subtly include him in his own celebrations). However, Zenigata simply told him that it was too much effort to actively buy and enjoy one specific kind of cigarettes and that he didn’t really smoke for the taste anyway, and why are you asking me this, Lupin, if this some kind of thing you do when you pickpocket I can assure you that I have nothing of value on me. 

Sighing at the horribly sweet memory of having that close-quarters conversation with the inspector all tucked away in a dirt-cheap bar approximately five miles away from the middle of nowhere, Lupin carefully lay the trenchcoat out across the bed, smoothing down some of the bigger wrinkles only to have them pop right back up, though it wasn’t like he was expecting them to stay flat from just his palm. 

He flicked open the carton, lightly jostling the pack ‘til a cigarette popped up and he leaned forward, taking the filter between his lips and letting it stick to the insides of his mouth as, with much less grace and caution than he had handled the coat, he tossed the carton onto the bed and watched with mild interest as it bounced once, two cigarettes spilling out from the inside and tumbling onto the sheets. 

Lupin’s Zippo lighter was already tucked away inside of his pants pocket, and for half of a moment, he considered simply lighting up his cigarette in the room he stood in, thinking that going by the window would be enough to deter the smoke from clinging to the bedsheets and the walls, even though everything in here was already stained with tobacco and nicotine and the memory of smoking deep into the night.

However, he then remembered the state of being Zenigata was in, and how he was asleep on the couch, feverish and tired and probably in no need of smoke getting into any part of his system. So, guilty that he had even considered doing such a deed inside of the sick man’s apartment, Lupin reached back around to stoop over and gather up the trenchcoat again, toppling the carton of cigarettes lying atop it in the process. 

As he began to shuffle quietly out of Zenigata’s bedroom, a little less anxious about making noise as he was earlier, he began to shoulder into the coat, doing a sort of awkward shuffle all the while attempting to shove his arms into sleeves. Of course, with Zenigata being an entire head taller than him and at  _ least  _ the width and build of a brick fucking wall, the coat was just a little tiny bit too big, and by the time Lupin had managed to put it onto both of his arms and get it nice and situated, he could barely see his fingertips poking through the annoyingly large sleeves. 

With a bothered huff, he began trying to roll up the gargantuan oceans of fabric higher on his arms, only pausing a moment when he reached the living room and his eyes automatically drifted to Zenigata, still sleeping atop the couch, curled in on himself and spilling over the cushions like a Great Dane trying to nap in a kitty bed. 

Slowly, silently, the nervousness from earlier taking over his movements, seeping into every muscle, tendon, and vein in his body, he made his creaky way over toward the couch, gaze softening, cigarette drooping with his lips, sleeves falling right back over his hands. 

Looking down at him as he slept, Lupin could quite clearly see that the poor guy looked totally exhausted despite having slept for  _ eons  _ when he had been rescued from the cold. His lips were slightly paler than usual, a little more chapped than usual, a little less pillowy than usual, and he had lost a good amount of the color in his usually vibrant face. Though his eyes were closed, Lupin could tell that they would be bloodshot and droopy just from the way they appeared now, eyebrows slightly knitted together, bags deep and dark circles deeper, almost as if they were a permanent part of the soft flesh beneath his heavily lashed eyes. 

He was losing weight, too, which was what worried Lupin the very most; he had done something like this before, had become completely malnourished due to his awful habit of overworking himself, which was caused by a sickening cocktail of self-loathing and desperate, obsessive passion. It was years and years ago, back before the two ever realized that they cared for one another as friends, and Lupin did nothing but watch with some strange, disgusting sort of triumph as Zenigata’s frail body wound up in the hospital, nothing more than IV fluids keeping him alive, nary a single visitor even peeking into his room. 

Obviously, though, things had changed, and standing over him now, a horribly lovestruck Lupin was quite tempted to reach out, to touch him, to trail his finger so lightly along his jawline, maybe curl that stray piece of hair near the inspector’s forehead on his index finger and watch it bounce back to its original shape. He wanted to be closer, every part of him did, wanted to run his hands through Zenigata’s salt and pepper locks, wanted to brush his nose overtop his eyelids and find those gentle spaces between each and every expression the inspector made and kiss him there. He knew he couldn’t though, and there was a certain strange feeling that came with the knowledge that he wouldn’t ever be allowed such divine pleasure. 

Without really thinking about it, Lupin leaned down, bending at the waist, pushing his fingers into the couch cushions to support himself, eyes fluttering so softly closed. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to be so near, knew that it was almost a cosmic wrong to find his greedy mouth guiding him to the temple of his enemy, but the very moment his lips pressed themselves against the warm skin, his bones ached for more, more, more. It was always more with Lupin. Always just  _ more.  _

When he drew back, Zenigata’s brow seemed just a tad less furrowed than it had been earlier, though he knew that it was nothing more than wishful thinking, a mere trick that his own eyes played on him. 

“Why’d it have to be you of all people?” He murmured softly, tucking his hands into the enormous pockets of Zenigata’s trench coat and beginning to back away from the couch, guilt and shame and something else surging through his body in great waves as, with dewy eyes, he realized that he would have to get the hell out if he wanted to keep from crying.

It was far too cold outside. 

Wind whipping around at his ankles, tossing the coat around on his thin frame as though it were little more than tissue paper, sleeves billowing, hands quivering, knees trembling. The cigarette he had nabbed from Zenigata still rested in his mouth, unlit and squeezed between his chattering teeth, shoulders hunched in a feeble attempt to warm his reddened ears, wishing with everything he had that he was wearing earmuffs or perhaps that he wasn’t standing in the middle of what felt like a miniature fucking blizzard. 

His hands were stiff as wood, joints barely able to move outside of a measly half a millimeter range, and he couldn’t even feel the tips of them anymore, his toes sharing the exact same fate. His eyes stung from the angry wind, and the cold was so intense that his clothes were utterly defenseless against its wrath. 

Every passing second, he psyched himself up to grip the Zippo lighter in his pants pocket, pull it out into the raging chill, and then flick at it ‘til there was a spark and, eventually, a flame that would aid him in igniting the cigarette that uselessly bobbed in his mouth. Despite the fact that he was constantly trying to hype up the movements of his body, though, he found that he was completely paralyzed, standing stone-still right in the middle of the sidewalk beneath a slowly dying streetlamp. The cold had seeped into every inch of his body, invading his bones and his organs and the very pores of his skin, seeping so deep into his blood that he swore he would turn into an ice-sculpture and fall down right then and there, shattering into billions of tiny shards upon impact. 

Now, more than ever, he needed to actually light his cigarette. Needed that hot smoke to push itself into his lungs and fill the expanse, needed it to come billowing out of his nostrils and spilling from his lips, needed it to warm the tip of his bright red nose each time he inhaled and the cherry glowed. However, as the seconds ticked into minutes which began to fly by in sets of five, he realized that he wouldn’t be getting any of  _ that  _ done tonight no matter how hard he tried. Besides, even if he  _ could _ find the strength in his body to move, the wind would damper any attempt to light the stupid thing in an instant, which meant that he was either wasting time  _ thinking  _ about smoking or wasting time  _ trying  _ to smoke, and he wasn’t sure which of the two annoyed him most.

Defeated, he turned on his heel, ready to just sleep the remainder of this miserable night away, thinking that the floor right in front of the couch would probably be nice and comfortable if he dragged Zenigata’s comforter in from his bedroom, maybe stealing a few pillows as well. 

As he was beginning his slow, shivering journey back to the entrance of the apartment (which was a horrific twelve feet walk), he could’ve sworn that his name was called from the snow. However, knowing that the wind could sound strange sometimes and also that if he were to whip his head around he’d look like an idiot, he ignored it adamantly and continued to trudge on, watching the snow swallow the rainboots he was wearing (they were Zenigata’s and about a million sizes too big) with relative disdain. 

_ Lupin! _

Ah, there it was again. He must really be searching for the sound of his name in the wind, for he knew that wind was all it was. 

_ Lupin! _

Alright, okay, once is common, twice is understandable, but hearing your name for the third time in a row amongst the listless snow was just embarrassing. Either that or he was beginning to hear things and the cold had damaged his ears more than he thought if that was even physically possible for standing outside for about… twenty minutes. 

“Dammit, you fucking jackass, turn  _ around!”  _ The wind grunted at him with a surprisingly gruff voice, and without warning, something slammed into the back of his head and crumbled into a million pieces, freezing cold and wet and sliding down his neck and into the back of his shirt. 

Positive that the wind wouldn’t call him profound names  _ or  _ throw snowballs at him, Lupin whipped around with an annoyed expression, mouth drawn into a tight, aggravated pout, brows furrowed, cheeks now red not only because Jack Frost had kissed them, but because he really didn’t need Jigen’s smug face staring back at him from the inside of the toasty warm Fiat after he had just hurled a snowball at the back of Lupin’s head. 

“There you are, I thought you were ignoring me!” The gunman shouted, grin a mile wide, fishhook caught up in one of his eyebrows as he leaned over onto the side of the window wearing that enormous black parka that Lupin so often stole. 

From behind him in the passenger seat, Fujiko leaned forward and smiled, mouthing a greeting as she waved her mitten-clad hand at him, drowning in what was probably the fattest scarf Lupin had ever seen. And then, of course, sitting in the middle seat at the back was Goemon, looking disgruntled after being forced into a fluffy pair of earmuffs and a bright red scarf as well as what looked like two of Fujiko’s softest cashmere gloves. 

“What gives?” Lupin huffed, walking with a lazy bow-legged gait toward the car, already beginning to lean forward so that he could be closer to Jigen’s height when they spoke. 

“I thought you would be on the way home by now,” the gunman replied, ignoring the question the moment Lupin was close enough to lean against the window. Which he did, crossing his arms and resting them atop the cool surface as Jigen drew back to let him. “what’re you still doing here?” 

“What do you mean by--”

“Hi, Lupin!” Fujiko chirped. 

“Hey, Fuj,” he replied. “what do you mean by-- hi Goemon, you look cozy,” 

“Hm,” the samurai hummed, nodding, a touch of blush just barely dusting over his cheeks. 

“What do you mean by that?” Lupin was finally able to spit out his question, tilting his head and frowning at Jigen, who smiled in that strange and knowing way that Lupin fucking  _ hated.  _

“I just didn’t expect you to stay with Pops is all,” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know, I just figured you didn’t care that much,” Jigen shrugged, though there almost seemed to be the hint of a smirk stretching out his sly mouth. Lupin scowled. 

“That isn’t the point. Where the hell are you guys headed? Surely you weren’t looking for me,” 

“Don’t be silly!” Fujiko sang from the passenger seat. “We’re going to go  _ dancing!” _

“She’s tipsy,” Goemon murmured from the backseat. 

“I’m tips-- oh, no, I am  _ not  _ I’m just fun and have such a good sense of humor,” Fujiko snapped, swatting the air around Goemon’s face, who looked up, fighting a smile. 

“We  _ are  _ going to go dancing, though,” Jigen said, and some of his whiskey-stained breath hit Lupin square in the face, his nose wrinkling slightly. “so get in. It’s best for you to be a little bit drunk by the time you’re there because that makes it easier to dance, but the alcohol there is too expensive to get slammed on so there’s some whiskey and vodka in the back,” 

“You guys act like teenagers, you know that?” Lupin grumbled, arching his eyebrow, but he had to admit the idea sounded incredibly fun. “As much as I would love to cut a rug with the three of you Stooges, I should probably stay here,” 

“Why’s that?” Jigen asked, and his tone suggested that he knew  _ exactly  _ why. Lupin’s expression soured even further, eyes rolling in deep exasperation. 

“Pops isn’t lookin’ too hot, and I figured somebody should be there to make sure he doesn’t try to go to work with a fever or anything,”

“What, so you’d rather take care of a cop than come with us?” Fujiko pouted, once more leaning forward in her seat so that she could make eye contact with the thief. “He probably goes to bed early, he’s so old, so why don’t you just come with us? Don’t you wanna dance with me?” She cooed, shimmying her shoulders in a way that made Goemon giggle from the backseat. Was  _ he  _ drunk as well? How the hell did they get him to get even buzzed on the stuff that Jigen drank? He was always complaining about how it tasted like rubbing alcohol. 

One simple glance at his face, however, told Lupin everything he needed to know. Oh, God, he would give  _ anything  _ to party with whiskey-drunk Goemon, for such an instance only happened once in a lifetime. But…

“I’ll just stay here, there really should be somebody to take care of Zenigata. Besides, it’ll be like payback,” 

“For what?” Jigen and Fujiko asked in unison. 

“Oh, well you know,” Lupin sniffed, rubbing nervously at the nape of his neck, that Godforsaken tag on Zenigata’s trenchcoat scratching up against his hand. “Anyway,” he said, quick to change the subject. “I won’t be gone for long, just ‘til he gets better,” 

“Why does it matter so much?” Fujiko frowned, and Lupin could only respond with a small  _ ehhh  _ before Jigen began to speak. 

“It’ll be boring without you, you know. Nobody dances quite like you-- and I mean that in the worst, most insulting way possible,” 

“Gee, thanks, glad to know my fans love me,” Lupin muttered sarcastically, shivering against a particularly strong gust of wind that threatened to topple him sideways. “I’m sorry, I really am, I just… shouldn’t leave him by himself. Even you guys have to admit that we’ve all sorta grown a bit of a soft spot for good ‘ole Pops, right?” 

There was a collective hush that fell over the occupants of the Fiat, every single one of them seeming to ponder this statement quite intently, brows furrowed, mouths falling into little fish frowns, a hivemind “hmmmmmmm” passing clearly through all of their alcohol-hazed minds. 

Finally, with a rattling sigh, Jigen looked up toward Lupin and smiled. “Ok, fine. We  _ do  _ all sorta care about Pops, so we’ll stay.” 

Please with himself, Lupin nodded, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth--

“ You’ll  _ what?”  _ He choked, backing away from the window, shock etched into his expression. Snowflakes punched at his cheek and tangled themselves in his eyelashes, only adding onto the weight from the ones that had been there for quite a while. “What do you mean stay?” 

“We don’t have to go out dancing tonight, you know,” Jigen shrugged.

“Whaaat? Yes, we do!” Fujiko pouted. 

“Shut up,” 

“Fuck you,” 

“We’ll stay here with you and Pops, Lupin,” Jigen turned away from Fujiko, the scowl melting off of his face. “since he’s so sick and all, it might be good for us to just stay in and take care of him ‘til he ain’t lookin’ like he’s gonna be pushing daisies anytime soon,” 

“You phrased that really bad,” Lupin murmured, and Jigen could only nod apologetically. “I uh-- I really don’t think you guys need to do that, you know,” 

“Why not? Come to think of it, it could be nice,” 

“Not as nice as dancing,” Fujiko grumped, crossing her arms and leaning back in the passenger seat. She was definitely tipsy, if not a little bit  _ more  _ than that. 

“No, not as nice as dancing-- especially dancing with _ Goemon--”  _ Jigen grinned, glancing in the backseat to the samurai who, despite probably being hammered, remained his regular calm, cool, and collected self. “--but still nice. We could borrow his TV, maybe make cocoa or coffee to sober ourselves up, maybe spike it to get us a bit more drunk. We’ll be quiet, we could just watch some movies or talk in his living room,” 

“He’s asleep in his living room,” 

“I said we’ll be quiet,” Jigen hummed. “so I guess that settles it! We’ll park here, and you’re gonna have to lead us into his place ‘cos I forgot his room number,” 

“That’s really… not necessary,” Lupin replied hastily, hand darting out to grasp his friend’s arm, who arched an eyebrow, eyes first lingering on the thief’s frantic hand before trailing up to meet his gaze. “it might. Um. Stress him out if there are too many people in his apartment while he’s not feeling well,” 

“And you’re saying that having  _ you  _ in his apartment isn’t equivalent to ten other people?” 

“Well, maybe, but with all of us that’d make forty whole people in his apartment,”

“Just thirty-one, Goemon isn’t as much of a handful as the rest of us,”

“Right, yeah. Well, I still doubt he’d like thirty-one people in his apartment,”

“We could help out,”

“How?” 

“I can cook, and Goemon knows all sorts of weird, fucked up remedies,” 

“They’re medicinal,” Goemon interjected, and Jigen nodded knowingly, leaning in and tilting his head close to Lupin’s. 

“They’re  _ medicinal,”  _ he parroted, and the thief rolled his eyes, shoving Jigen’s chuckling face back inside the car. 

“I don’t know, I just think that it’s a one-person job,” he frowned, heart rate quickening. He knew  _ why  _ he didn’t want the others to be with him as he cared for the inspector but did he really feel  _ this  _ strongly about it? 

“Why not ask a different person, then?” 

Yes. As it turns out, he  _ did  _ feel this strongly about it. 

“They wouldn’t do it right,” Lupin blurted before he could stop himself, and he quickly clapped a hand over his mouth, feeling heat rush all the way to his cheeks right on up to his ears and crawling down his neck. Had he actually said that? The same stupid argument he had made when Zenigata insisted that his co-worker help him out instead of the thief? 

After allowing himself to admit that he really did have it bad for the inspector, did he really truly and actually have it  _ this bad?  _

“Come again?” Jigen snorted, eyes wide, grin wider. He leaned further out the window, pushing Lupin and his flushed face away, shoulders now poking out of the car, the beginnings of a smirk melting into his features. “They what now?” 

“They wouldn’t have  _ time,”  _ Lupin snapped, praying that  _ time  _ and  _ right  _ sounded close enough and that the wind would muddle them together so much Jigen wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “his co-workers, I mean. They’re still cleaning up the Barnett mess, remember? Lots of um. Paperwork to do, I’m sure,” 

“Oh, so now you suddenly sympathize with Pops’ co-workers? And you actually care about the fact that their workload was raised a bit since we bagged those two freaks for them?” 

“I don’t,” Lupin huffed. “I don’t care about or sympathize with them, that wasn’t the point. It’s just that--” 

“Just that  _ what,  _ Lupin?” Jigen’s face suddenly dropped, one hand darting from the wheel to Lupin’s shoulder, fingertips digging into his skin, yanking him down so that he was once again eye level with the gunman, whose eyes were sharper than daggers as they bore scorching holes into the gaze of the startled thief. 

He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t stern, he wasn’t frustrated or annoyed but… rather… worried. Concerned.

“Lupin,” he hissed, quiet enough so that neither Fujiko nor Goemon could hear. It wasn’t as though either of them was paying attention, though; a quick glance told Lupin that Fujiko was deep in some sort of wild anecdote and Goemon was listening rather intently, leaning forward from his seat, a hiccup emerging from his diaphragm every once and a while. “can’t you just admit it? I know why you’re doing this, you know why you’re doing this, and unless you say  _ something,  _ anything at all, you’ll rip yourself apart,” 

From behind him, Fujiko dissolved into rapid laughter at something she herself had said. Goemon smiled, almost even chuckled. 

“I know how much you hate this, and I know how shitty it probably feels. It’s real fucked up, I know-- I  _ know--  _ but you’re only gonna wind up hurting yourself if you keep tryin’ to keep somebody that you haven’t caught yet. That doesn’t know somebody even  _ wants  _ him,” 

Fujiko was telling a new story now, or at least it looked like it and was gesturing rather wildly with her hands. From the backseat, Goemon was nodding enthusiastically, occasionally pausing her to say something that she would almost  _ instantly  _ agree with, bobbing her head and grinning and flapping her hands about. 

“Lupin, you’ve got two options, and I know you ain’t gonna like either. But this won’t ever be healthy for either of you if you continue on like this-- so you gotta tell him that you want him, that you wanna catch him, or you shut the hell up and you stay quiet and you let him go,”

Lupin scrunched his nose, opening his mouth to say something, the cigarette he had forgotten about clinging to his upper lip and coming right up with it, but it was Jigen who spoke first. 

“you can either love him or you can let him free but you can’t do both. If you do both you’re only gonna hurt him. And it’s… pretty clear you’re all about keepin’ him safe, right?” 

The gunman’s voice fell silent. Behind him, Fujiko leaned all the way back to shove Goemon playfully in the shoulder, who laughed, rubbing his arm as though it hurt. 

He said something, she giggled. She said something, he snorted. Neither of them knew or cared what was happening outside of the Fiat, both too warm and too boozed up to notice that there was a world outside of the heated interior of an old, dirty car and a road that led to a dark club that would allow them to celebrate their most recent heist-- they hadn’t been able to earlier, for they used all of their time to rest up and begin to plan a new one. 

Expectantly, Jigen gazed up at the thief, brows knitted together, something that damn near looked like a plea caught up in his lashes. Lupin hated how much he knew. Hated how involved he was in the thief’s feelings, hated how he was trying to pass out advice, hated how he had said he understood even though he didn’t, not even a little bit.

Lupin also hated that he was right. 

But he was. 

He was right. 

“I…” he began, sniffing softly, relieved that Jigen’s nasty overgrown nails had stopped digging into his shoulder-- seriously, he should clip them down, everybody thought so-- and backing away, watching as the gunman carefully slipped back into the car, expression still soft, still worried. 

He looked like he was waiting for Lupin to say something, as he was staring quite intently at the thief who didn’t want to talk, who didn’t have any reason to talk, who didn’t want to admit that he really did have to face whatever the hell was going on with his sticky, messy emotions. 

“... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finished, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. He arched an eyebrow, reaching forward to slug his dear friend through the car, fist bumping into a parka-clad shoulder, knuckles sliding off of the thin, smooth material. 

The exhausted smile sitting light and solemn on his lips screamed that he knew  _ exactly  _ what Jigen was talking about, but the gunman must have not picked up on it, for his expression fell and a sigh rushed through his mouth, bringing with it a thick, white cloud that momentarily covered his features like icy cigarette smoke. 

“You’re a damned idiot, you know that?” He huffed, mostly joking as he repositioned himself back into the car. He straightened up in his seat, keeping his shoulders and elbows away from the window as he began to roll it up, arm pumping and hand gripping tight to the crank, having to strain just a little bit for the mechanism was old and stiff and slowed by the unforgiving weather. 

“I’ll see you back home?” Lupin smiled wearily, wishing that he had been given at least a  _ shred  _ of compassion instead of this harsh tough love that made his stomach churn and his throat hurt. The wind gripped his torso and attempted to nudge him to the side, but he stood his ground, feet digging into the snow below, hands clenching into weak, trembling fists-- though, it was more like his fingers simply formed a claw, as he was a bit too stiff to  _ actually  _ make a fist. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you. Sucks that you’ll miss out on  _ this,  _ though, man,” Jigen grinned, dropping the subject of their earlier conversation immediately, jabbing a finger behind him at Fujiko and Goemon, both of whom quickly paused their musings to toss a lackluster goodbye Lupin’s way, eyes glistening with the alcohol and the excited buzz that filled the entire car. 

“Yeah.” Lupin snorted, shoving both of his hands into Zenigata’s pockets praying that he could find even a shred of warmth within the borrowed article of clothing to fight against the way the snow was beginning to swirl almost mockingly around his rigid figure. “Sucks,” 

Jigen made a soft hum of acknowledgment, or at least it looked like he did (the wind was far too strong to hear anything as subtle and quiet as that), and continued to roll the window up. And eventually, with an awful scraping noise due to the ice that had built up along the edges, he succeeded, closing off Lupin from the rest of the group. The darkness of night combined with the harsh glare of the flickering streetlamp caused Jigen’s face to disappear behind the tinted glass. 

Lupin still searched for it as he began to back off from the side of the car, though, snow crunching beneath boots that were far too big for him. 

As the little yellow Fiat began to crawl away, engine humming and laughter slipping through a crack in the windshield, Lupin’s stomach dropped to the icy concrete, and he found himself wishing he had gone along with them, that he had just let Zenigata be. The choice was far too difficult, and he didn’t want to make it. He didn’t even want to go  _ near  _ it. 

For how could he possibly allow himself to tell Zenigata how he felt? How could he possibly tell the man who was chasing him that he had fallen for him? How could he just leave his heart so open and vulnerable like that, how could he ever offer it to somebody who he knew didn’t want anything to do with it? 

And worse yet, if Lupin chose not to ever let his feelings be known, how could he ever let Koichi Zenigata  _ go?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is also gonna be in lupin's perspective.,,,, sorry zeni but u dont get the finale.... sick nasty bitch 🙄🙄


	11. the wonders of missing another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One question, two options, no right answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> top ten terrifying mysterious facts about the bermuda triangle number four will suck you clean off

Lupin was still standing outside of the apartment building, snow still building up along his hunched shoulders in thin, white layers of icy dust, unlit cigarette still useless and clenched between chattering teeth, cheeks red hot with the bite of the cold as it tormented him, beating and shoving against his thin, shivering frame. Brow furrowed, hands stuffed deep within the confines of Zenigata’s coat pockets, frown set heavy on his lips, he stared with ever-drying eyes at the space the Fiat once occupied. 

Jigen had driven off a little over five minutes ago leaving nothing but tire tracks in his wake, though the traces of those annoyingly earnest last words lingered in the air around Lupin’s swimming head. They stuck to his brain, wormed themselves in through his ears, tied around his throat, and refused to let go. 

For whatever odd reason, the gunman’s last piece of advice had… hit Lupin a little harder than he was willing or ready to admit. 

The worst part about it was that he had been  _ right.  _ Lupin had to make a choice-- there was no getting around it-- had to be prepared to either have his heart crushed through rejection or have his heart crushed by trying to forget those feelings ever existed in the first place.  _ Neither  _ option sounded particularly desirable, to tell the truth, and he wasn’t even sure if he was completely prepared to face something that could potentially ruin him. Not forever, obviously, because it wasn’t like he was actually in  _ love  _ with the guy or anything, wasn’t like his heart ached so violently for him it made him sick

(he was and it did),

he just didn’t want to deal with that momentary hurt that always came with losing something that he wanted  _ oh  _ so dearly. 

As he wrapped his arms around his shivering body, he reminisced about a similar conflict the time he had attempted to nab an infamous sculpture of a dancing woman over in Budapest when he was just a kid; nineteen years old, doe-eyed and baby-faced, ready to hold up his grandfather’s legacy. He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but right near the end of his already sloppy heist, he had fucked up big time and ended up with what seemed like all of Hungary’s police force right on his ass, batons waving, faces seething red with anger. 

At first, he wasn’t worried in the slightest about such a small setback. He had been caught in stickier situations, and he would be able to wriggle his way out of this one just the same as any other. And so, overconfident and far too determined, he pushed onward, evading swarms of uniformed officers, dodging bullets, ducking every time he was presented with the sudden danger of having his skull cracked with one of their batons. 

He failed to consider that he was just one naive little kid and the Budapest police force was… well, it was a hell of a lot more than one naive little kid, that was for damn sure. 

Right at the cusp of reaching his beloved statue, he found himself trapped between a rock and a hard place, with the rock being a wall with nothing to climb up or swing from or slip into, and the hard place being an FÉG PA-63 pushed right up against his nose. 

Escape would be simple, really, he saw the weak and open spots on the uniformed officer in front of him, and he was quick enough and lanky enough to reach all of them with enough force to render the guy useless. The only problem was that he would have to leave the statue behind. That, or, he could risk getting to the statue and being caught, which would either result in injury or jail time or, considering the fact that by that time he was already a known and wanted criminal, both. 

The hint of a pout jabbed at his otherwise impassive expression, and he glared down at the snow with solemn eyes, and, using the inspector’s rain boot, he kicked at a slowly growing mound of snow forming in front of him. It crunched lightly beneath the sole of the shoe, scattering in tiny white crystals over the rubber toe and sliding slowly down the sides to return to the ground. The boot itself slid back on Lupin’s foot, and now there was less room in the front and an infinite amount right in the heel-- he didn’t know which was more uncomfortable. 

The situation in Budapest and the situation right now weren’t similar in the slightest, were they? 

Zenigata wasn’t some statue that Lupin was after, he was a real person, one that would probably tail the thief for as long as he lived, one that Lupin would most definitely see again no matter how hard he tried to escape him. 

God, putting it that way made harmless old Pops seem like one  _ hell  _ of a cop, huh? 

Lupin sniffled, the cold slowly being more and more difficult to bear, gusts of wind picking up and whipping quite violently against the trenchcoat that drooped, heavy and oversized, over his body. 

Zenigata’s coat was so enormous, in fact, that it was almost warm, the thick fabric protecting as much of the thief as it could cover (and my, did it cover a lot)-- but then another gust of wind tore through through the street, smacking Lupin right in the ear and traveling from the very crown of his head all the way down to his toes. Gooseflesh erected across every inch of skin, exposed or not, and pulled a tremendous shiver from him, teeth clenching, jaw trembling rapidly despite his best efforts to keep it still, a classic  _ brrrrr  _ escaping his half-frozen lips, which he kept trying to moisten with his tongue but was only succeeding in making them twenty times drier than they already were. 

With another sniffle, Lupin considered calling a cab and just flat out leaving the apartment building to return another day, perhaps a day where he didn’t have to face the ever-growing dread of the realization that there was only one solution to this problem that had been eating away at him for far longer than he had even realized.

The more logical side of him said that it wasn’t as though this confession (or lack thereof) could possibly affect him more than any other slightly negative thing that occurred in his life. This was nothing more than slipping up, losing somebody else’s expensive family heirloom, or accidentally spilling the fruits of his selfish labor just as he was making his flashy, melodramatic escape. 

However, the more compassionate side of him shrieked that Zenigata wasn’t some sort of crown jewel bedazzling a disgustingly wealthy woman’s necklace or a Renaissance-era painting thought to have been lost forever that was recently restored and put up with the highest security anybody had ever seen in an extraordinarily famous museum. He wasn’t a briefcase thick and bursting with money or files upon files of information that led the thief to a sort of formula that would make him the richest man alive. He wasn’t even a beautiful young woman with flirtatious eyes and a lavish wardrobe and one hell of a punch (what could he say? Lupin dug a girl that could fling him across the room). 

He wasn’t any of those things that Lupin had ever desired before. And that was because of the mere fact that he wasn’t… particularly… special, in any way.

He wasn’t rich or tremendously handsome-- though that wasn’t to say he was unattractive-- and didn’t hold anything of great value anywhere near him. He wasn’t elegant or smooth or even remotely graceful. 

Zenigata was clumsy. Zenigata was loud. Zenigata was brash and sometimes cocky but mostly surprisingly reserved for a man so embarrassingly  _ outgoing.  _ He had a goofy smile and a laugh that made your ears ring and one of his teeth was partially hidden behind the other and his hair was already greying quite a lot near the sideburns. He had crow’s feet and laugh lines and freckles that were smattered thinly across the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks, all except three or four too light to notice whereas the few that dotted his shoulders and back were so dark they resembled moles (they weren’t. Lupin had stared long enough to know that they weren’t.).

Most of all, though, and this was the part that really threw the poor thief for a loop, he was… Zenigata. 

That was it, really. He was just Zenigata, nothing more to it. 

And so, the notion that Lupin would have to give him up in a world full of endless riches and glistening jewels and breathtaking women made his stomach churn and head hurt and heart squeeze itself so hard it stung. 

He toyed with the idea of taking a drag of his cigarette before realizing that it was embarrassingly unlit, so he pretended to wipe his mind of the thought completely and instead opted to stare down balefully at his-- Zenigata’s-- boots. He couldn’t stay out here forever, nor could he simply up and go; the inspector was going to catch up to him no matter what he did. It didn’t matter where the hell Lupin scuttled off to or how well he thought he was hiding, Zenigata would always, always, always find him, quite an annoyingly impressive quality about him. 

The streetlamp behind the thief flickered softly, once, twice, three times, four, and when Lupin pivoted on his heel, making a small circular shape in the snow as he did so, he managed to catch the last glimpse of yellow, weak light before slowly, gently, it died in the bulb. 

Though it was dark, now, Lupin could tell just by looking at the streetlamp that it was still hot. It still held a faint glow around it, a lingering halo of imaginary light that refused to leave even after the bulb had stopped working. The thief blinked, and when he closed his eyes, he found the small stars and moons and comets that came along with looking directly at some sort of light source. 

Was that a sign? Should he go inside, now? Confront the one person that made his head spin? Or choose the other option and pretend that he didn’t feel anything whenever he saw him? Or was he being too poetic, too superstitious? Was it stupid to look at dying streetlamps and consider them signs from the universe that something needed to be said or done? Was he looking too deep into this? 

“Hey, sir,” a gruff voice wrenched him free from his thoughts, and his hazy gaze drifted toward the front of the building where a rather buff man leaned out of the glass door. He wore a navy blue doorman’s uniform, black hair pushed back like a greaser’s, brow strong and furrowed. 

Lupin blinked stupidly at the man, who stared back expectantly at him, almost as though he were waiting for him to say something. 

When the thief stayed silent, mouth shut tighter than a clam with a secret, the man rolled his eyes, not so much in exasperation but rather in… no, yeah, he seemed fairly annoyed. 

“Sir,” he said again, pushing the door open just a little further, white glove pressing against the glass, frown tugging at the corners of his thin, straight lips. “are you going to come in? You’ve been standing out in the freezing cold for thirty minutes starin’ into space ever since your friend left,” 

“Thirty minutes?” Lupin replied concern just barely at the edge of his tone as a fresh gust of icy wind threatened to steal the words from his lips and take them far away so that the doorman wouldn’t be able to hear. 

“Thirty minutes,” the man parroted, and then sighed rather heavily. The bags beneath his eyes seemed just a tad more prominent. “are you intoxicated?” 

Slowly, softly, Lupin shook his head from side to side, sniffing lightly as the cold bit at his nose and turned it cherry red as he shuffled forward toward the door, boots kicking up bouts of powdery-white snow, a few of the crystals delicately landing inside and melting instantaneously against his socks or exposed ankle. He shivered. 

If the streetlamp dying wasn’t a sign to go inside, then this surely was. Or, maybe not a sign, really, just… a good idea. The weather was harsh, and though he was bundled up, standing outside and losing himself within the blurry, thick, uncomfortable thoughts of the task ahead of him would definitely cause him to end up with a cold in the long run. 

As he approached the entrance, he could feel the warmth of the building already begin to lap at his skin, and only then did he realize that he could barely move his fingers, and couldn’t feel them at all. 

The doorman’s face softened and he stepped back, irritation melting into something more like concern, and he let the thief amble in, slowly closing the door behind him as snow-soaked boots touched down on the lobby’s enormous black doormat. 

“You alright there, buddy?” He asked, sounding more like he was talking to a child who had tripped and fallen rather than a man who looked completely and totally blitzed. “Need me to call somebody?”

“I…” Lupin began, before realizing that he was talking to a human person and that he was standing inside of an apartment building and that he looked so far gone that the doorman was asking whether or not he was okay. Softly, as though trying to rid himself of all of his thoughts, he shook his head before squaring his shoulders and cozying up inside of the trenchcoat. “Sorry about that,” he chuckled, looking up to meet the doorman’s eye, shrugging lightly. “I guess I lost track of time,” 

“Uh-huh,” the man frowned, crossing his arms. “are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine. I didn’t mean to disturb anybody, I’m sure I looked drunk standing out there,” 

“Yeah, extremely. Anyways, you’re not planning on smoking that indoors, are you?” The doorman nodded his head toward Lupin’s cigarette, who, rather stupidly, crossed his eyes to get a better look at the thing, cheeks slowly tinting pink with embarrassment, though it probably wasn’t very noticeable as the cold had beaten them bright raw red. 

“No, sorry, I ah-- well, that’s why I was out there in the first place. Wind was too strong though, so I gave up, I’ll just have to wait ‘til the storm dies down,” 

“Mmm-hmm,” the doorman nodded, reaching out and putting an enormous, firm hand on the thief, who damn near wilted at the contact. He wasn’t the type to get intimidated by people bigger than him, but at the moment he was feeling smaller than a tiny little harvest mouse, and if he was a mouse then this guy was for sure a hawk, and his talons were squeezing into the flesh of Lupin’s shoulder. “you don’t need help getting to your room, do you?” 

Lupin opened his mouth, about to tell the man that he was simply visiting and he knew where his friend’s apartment was, but immediately shut it when the realization that doing such might just make the doorman question him as, apparently, he was already acting extremely suspicious. 

So, instead, he gave a meek little smile, stiff as a board, and nodded his head lightly, which seemed like the proper answer. 

Nodding curtly, the doorman moved his hand to the side of Lupin’s arm and gave a lighthearted pat that felt more like a bulldozer crashing into the thief’s bicep with crushing force before wordlessly turning away, apparently deciding that the thief was no longer a threat or… or whatever he thought about Lupin in the first place.

Relieved to have  _ that  _ God-awful little interaction over, Lupin grimaced lightly and turned on his heel, boots squeaking mercilessly against the tile floor as he made his awkward way toward the elevator, aching to just be out of such an embarrassing environment and longing for the space heater in Zenigata’s apartment that was sure to help him regain feeling in his appendages again so long as he kept near it. 

The door to the inspector’s apartment was locked. 

Lupin wasn’t sure why or when Zenigata had apparently woken up to lock it, but all the same, he cursed himself for being such a dolt as he wriggled the knob, once gold and turning green from the number of times it had been touched by decades worth of different people. He knew perfectly well that mindlessly fiddling with the thing wouldn’t give him any results-- any good ones, at least-- but it still felt good to do something with his hands which were still numb, as the cold from outside seemed to stick to them, seeping inside of each tendon and ligament, pushing between his joints and locking them so that each time he tried to bend them fully he was met with an awkward, sharp sort of pain that made him hiss between his ever-chattering teeth. 

After several moments of uselessly attempting to pry the lock open by sheer will and determination, he gave a sigh that emerged from the depths of his stomach, leaning forward and thumping his head against the door, shoulders slumped, arms limp and frozen at his sides. A few bits of peeling paint chipped away as he leaned back-- just slightly-- and thumped his head once more, this time a  _ little  _ bit harder, hoping that maybe he could knock a few ideas into his head on how to actually enter the apartment. 

He could always pick the lock-- but of course, everything he needed to achieve such a feat was tucked neatly away in one of the many, many pockets of his own jacket, which still rested lazily over the top of Zenigata’s swivel chair. Maybe if there was a bobby pin or something in one of the  _ inspector’s  _ coat pockets he might be able to get in, but you see, he was clever and he had thought of that ages ago and there wasn’t even a hint of anything that could ever possibly prove useful in a situation like this. 

The thief rolled his head awkwardly over the wood so that his entire body was forced to flip, and then, with much more flare than was needed, he slid upward ‘til his back was flush to the door, heels digging into the shitty carpet that almost looked like it was patterned with bile and wilting flowers. In fact, he thought with an indignant sniff and a downcast glance at the floor, he wouldn’t have been surprised if that really _ was _ the inspiration for something so horrendous. 

He could, of course, always go out and sneak in through the window just as he had several times before; it was easy, hidden away from most prying eyes, and had the luxury of a fire escape so that he wasn’t forced to scale the walls and pray that his legs and fingers were quick enough and strong enough to keep him alive. As a matter of fact, it was almost the easier, more logical option by this point, for standing outside of the door and doing absolutely nothing after vigorously jangling the handle looked terribly suspicious. Especially in the eyes of that doorman. 

Lupin shivered. Fucker was built like a  _ tank.  _

There was a third option to all of this madness, though, but Lupin didn’t even want to consider it despite the fact that it was the most civilized of all three of his golden ideas-- which was to simply reach out, knock on the door, perhaps call out Zenigata’s name just for good measure, and wait for only a few measly moments as the inspector shuffled over to unclick the lock and let him inside. Easy as pie, and probably just as pleasant as it lacked all of the suspiciousness that came with doing whatever the hell any of  _ this  _ bullshit was. It’d be much easier on his poor, frozen hands, too, and he wouldn’t have to worry about looking strange or malicious or completely drunk off of his ass because he would merely be  _ let  _ in by the owner of the apartment. That was it, simple and clean, no extra steps or added stressors or anything of the sort. 

It did, however, take the most courage out of every single option, because if he hadn’t heard the first time when Lupin jiggled at the doorknob, he had probably gone back to bed and assumed that the thief had left, and God knows Lupin wasn’t about to disturb his slumber just to go back inside of a place that made him realize far too many things that he wished he hadn’t.

Maybe, he thought as a light frown painted itself across his tired face, back leaning further into the door, hands absently coming to rest in front of him, fingers clasping together, he should just stay out in the hallway. Worst comes to worst, someone would find him and ask what he was doing and he could just say he forgot his key and didn’t want to disturb anybody, and then it would all be over and done. 

He sighed, frown turning into an annoyed scowl, bags under his eyes feeling more and more prominent by the minute. Perhaps he should’ve just admitted that he was visiting in the first place; lying obviously didn’t get him anywhere. 

Lupin stared down at the too-big boots he had borrowed, eyes locking with a small chunk of snow that hadn’t quite melted yet but was well on its way to. It was slowly, slowly, slowly sliding down the length of the shoe, leaving a trail of water that glistened slightly in the uncomfortable lights which hummed quietly overhead. 

He wondered, quite absently, whether or not it was worth it to stay-- besides, if he stole Zenigata’s coat and left his own, the inspector might believe it to be some sort of preparation for a heist, which meant that he would be completely thrown off the scent of Lupin’s… er… feelings towards him. 

The thief blinked, furrowing his brow and smoothing down a portion of the coat’s front, the unlit cigarette between his lips bobbing rather absently as the idea became more and more appealing. If he managed to slip away and continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he wouldn’t even  _ have  _ to think about what he was supposed to do in regards to how he felt. He could quite simply book it and call it a day, and then he could just start ignoring everything all over again. It might be a little harder than it had been the first time around, especially considering the fact that now he  _ knew  _ just how bad it actually was, but he was a fantastic actor. He would be able to push everything down just as he always had, and then he wouldn’t even have to think about it; this whole fiasco could finally be over. 

He would go back to planning heists, flirting and drinking and doing drugs along the way, creating general mayhem, and once Zenigata finally got better, he would be back to cleaning up that mayhem. They’d fall into the swing of things once more, that familiar push and pull, and the peace wouldn’t ever have to be disturbed again, because why should it? 

When Lupin allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he chewed on the thought of leaving once more, he didn’t even notice the gentle click of a lock as it was undone from the other side of the door. By the time he felt the handle turning beneath his lower back, brow furrowing and eyelids opening slowly, dully, he didn’t have time to realize that he was still leaning quite heavily against the wooden entrance. 

A yelp slipped from his mouth as it swung open and he instantly fell through, hands flailing uselessly through thin air in a stupid, vain attempt to grab onto something, feet stumbling as they oh so desperately tried to right the thief but ultimately failing. 

Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth  _ hard _ , he prepared himself to meet the cold, solid wooden floor of the inspector’s apartment, praying that his head didn’t hurt too bad when it collided with the ground. He shouldn’t have been so stupid-- how could he not have seen this coming? With the luck he had been having lately, something like this was practically inevitable, and he couldn’t say he was surprised as he stopped struggling and simply accepted his fate of crashing onto the floor with an embarrassing thud and looking like a damned idiot in front of Zenigata. 

Lupin’s back finally collided with-- 

\--something warm. And soft. And smelling vaguely of stir fry. 

“I was wondering where you went,” came the soft, sniffled greeting, and Lupin opened his eyes  _ wide,  _ tilting his head back only to be met with the gentle smile of none other than Zenigata himself. “I thought you had left,” 

“I…” Lupin began, but he couldn’t find it in himself to continue. His voice was caught in his throat, hot and uncomfortable, and his stomach was doing flips as the inspector’s firm hands found his waist and gently cupped it, supporting his lower back as, uselessly, the thief leaned against his chest. 

“I woke up when I heard the front door shut,” he continued, giving Lupin the slightest push to help right him again, who had completely forgotten that he had actually fallen, mind too hazy to realize that he was pushed up against Zenigata at an uncomfortably personal level, and scrambled to stand up, boots thudding and clunking around the ground as he awkwardly lunged for the door, trying to politely close it but probably looking more like he was attempting to hide a freshly slaughtered human body. Zenigata didn’t seem fazed in the slightest, watching with calm, half-lidded eyes. “so I went to lock it, thinking that you would be just be gone for good,”

“I didn’t-- uh--” Lupin sniffled awkwardly, clicking the door softly shut, palm lingering on the wood as his free hand held fast to the knob with an iron grip. “I didn’t realize it was so loud,” 

Zenigata shrugged. “It wasn’t. I was already half-awake when you left-- I was having the strangest dream, I swear it felt real,” he snorted, looking more exhausted than ever. Chapped lips, messy hair, bags heavy beneath his eyes, hands trembling and glistening with sweat. His face, however, and Lupin felt great relief upon noting, was less sunken. He seemed to have regained some of the color in his cheeks, which meant that he was feeling just a  _ little  _ better. Plus, he was standing on his own, only slightly wobbly, so he probably felt less dizzy as well. 

“Sorry, I uh. I was just going to have a smoke,” Lupin frowned, gesturing rather stiffly to the cigarette, still completely full and useless as it clung to his ice-cold lips. 

“Were you now,” Zenigata arched a brow, staring at the nature of the cigarette. The thief’s face deepened to a whole new shade of red. 

“It didn’t light,” 

“No kiddin’,” 

“Wind too strong,” 

“I can tell,” 

“Yeah. Sorry,”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Zenigata shrugged, smiling lightly, a hint of amusement dancing behind his eyes as they trailed down Lupin’s frame, looking at his own coat and boots on a man much smaller than he was. 

“They were warmer than mine,” was all the thief said, and Zenigata held up his hands defensively, chuckling lightly but with good nature. Such a sound almost toppled Lupin all over again, and he swallowed hard, feeling the heat in his cheeks grow as he stooped down, wriggling out of the boots. 

Zenigata stood with him all the while, not speaking, not even looking at him. He busied himself by staring intently at a small hangnail peeling near his thumb, peering down at an empty space on the floor as though there was something different or strange about it, yawning lightly. Idle movements, none of which were significant in any way, none of which meant anything except that Zenigata clearly didn’t want to step away from the entrance of his apartment. 

Nervously, almost as though he had an entire audience rather than one sick man, Lupin unbuttoned the trench coat, his fingers clumsy and fumbling, far too cold to get much of anything done as the inspector watched with curious eyes. 

The first button finally slipped through, and then the second and the third, until finally, the coat was unlatched and sliding slowly down the length of Lupin’s shoulders, which he curled back. 

He kept an adamant gaze on anything and everything  _ other  _ than the man before him, feeling odd and shy as the coat moved down his arms, pooling around his ankles despite the fact that he hadn’t even taken it fully off. 

Even though his clothes were on, he felt naked, felt as though this moment were an intimate one, and his nerves spiked once more. He could’ve sworn he was trembling, though his hands stayed quite still as, at long last, he shucked the coat off, bringing it up and over one of his arms, staring shyly down at his socks. 

He shifted, going toward the coat rack and straightening out the trench coat, reaching out as he began to drape it over one of the hooks, all of which were completely empty and unoccupied.

“I was scared you had left if I’m being honest,” 

Lupin froze, arms still reaching out, fingers still clinging to the coat. Suddenly, it was very hard to breathe, and the silence after that one sentence latched onto him and drowned him fully, threatening to fill his lungs and his gut and kill him right then and there.

“I know it’s stupid, but I thought you had just up and ran. Not to say I’m not expecting that, I know you’ll probably be gone in the morning, but you know. It’s always good to have somebody around when you’re sick,” 

Slowly, mouth slightly agape, blinking as if underwater, Lupin turned to face the inspector, who did not do the same, suddenly very interested with that hangnail he had been enamored with earlier. 

Did he not want the thief to leave? Did he just admit to enjoying the Lupin’s presence? Did that mean he could stay? 

Lupin’s eyes flicked across Zenigata’s face, searching for some sort of sign, maybe of a joke, maybe of sincerity, and he almost asked for the inspector to look at him because he was very hard to read when his attention was directed elsewhere. 

Instead, he forced himself to chuckle, arching his brow at Zenigata quizically. “Oh, so you’ve finally admitted that you’re sick and need help?” He chortled, stepping forward and balling his hand into a fist which, gently, he slugged the inspector’s shoulder, careful not to jostle him too much in any way. 

“Oh, shut up,” Zenigata rolled his eyes, pushing Lupin’s hand away with one of his own, rolling his eyes, and beginning to turn. 

However, he stopped cold the very moment their hands met. 

“Lupin!” He exclaimed, concern abruptly filling his voice as he stepped closer, now using both hands to cling to the thief’s, holding it between his palms and giving a few soft squeezes. 

Lupin’s eyes widened and he nearly backed away, but he figured that doing so would only raise suspicion, so he forced himself to stay in place as the inspector shuffled closer and closer ‘til their forearms were able to be pressed flush together. 

“You’re  _ freezing,”  _ Zenigata frowned before, without warning, he reached down, grasping Lupin’s other hand in his own and bringing them together, holding them in a bundle. “were you seriously standing outside in the snow the whole hour you were gone?” 

Lupin almost gasped.  _ “Hour?”  _ He said, frowning lightly, not entirely sure if he was fully conscious as he felt Zenigata’s thumbs begin to rub his skin in what should have been a comforting gesture but instead made his stomach burst with fluttering little butterflies. 

“Yeah, you didn’t realize? God, you’re spacey,” 

“I am not  _ spacey,  _ I just lost track of time,” 

“Doing what? Smoking?” Zenigata deadpanned, and Lupin shrunk at the tone of his voice, wanting to spit the cigarette out. Why the hell was he still holding it? 

When Zenigata tugged Lupin’s hands just a little closer so that they were almost touching his warm, warm chest, the thief looked up, glassy eyes meeting urgent ones. 

“Listen,” the inspector said, but it was neither stern nor upset. It was soft, friendly, almost, just concerned enough to be sweet. “I already feel like shit. If you end up with a cold, then it’s just gonna be the two of us on my couch, sick as dogs, and that’d just be plain awkward,” he chuckled, but the earnestness behind his tone lingered in the air and suggested that he was honestly worried about Lupin’s wellbeing. 

“I…” Lupin was dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything  _ to  _ say. He just wished that his hands could be caught up in the warmth of Zenigata’s own for just a little longer, instantly missing his touch as, with a smile, the inspector let Lupin’s arms fall limp to his sides and he began to walk back to the couch, admittedly looking better than he had earlier. 

Instead of trying to reply to what had just been said, the thief opted to change the subject of the conversation entirely, quickly following behind Zenigata like a lost puppy, though he felt almost too dizzy to walk. 

“Were you awake all that time?” He asked lightly, trying not to let the worry in his voice plague his words, hands darting to shove into his pockets as casually as humanly possible. 

He did not look casual. 

“Yeah. I tried to fall back asleep, but I couldn’t, so I figured I might as well eat some of the stir fry you made. It’s good, the rest is in the fridge if you want,” 

“Oh, I’m not hungry. So you liked it?” 

“Surprisingly, yeah, I half expected you to poison me,” Zenigata’s expression was light and playful as he leaned back against the arm of the couch. “you know, it’s very strange that you’re even here at all. I would think that my worst enemy would be glad that I’m currently unable to do my job,” when the inspector’s voice turned stern, his eyes hardening, Lupin felt his stomach drop, fingers twiddling restlessly as he walked to stand in front of Zenigata. “you could very easily go out and steal something and I won’t be able to stop you, Lupin,” 

“Is that a request?” The thief chortled, trying to ignore how Zenigata’s expression didn’t waver in the slightest. 

“Lupin,”

“Pops?”

“Why are you  _ doing this?”  _ The inspector’s voice dropped to a near whisper and he leaned forward, pushing his hands against the armrest which creaked lightly, eyes grazing over every feature in Lupin’s face, who suddenly felt very self-conscious. “Why are you helping me?” 

Lupin was surprised at how naturally the phrase  _ because I love you  _ bubbled up in his throat, and he damn near said it as he forced his gaze to meet Zenigata’s, who was now so close that Lupin could almost count his freckles. 

“Pops…” 

His throat felt dry, mouth sticky, tongue heavy. He could say it and just get it over with, it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? Three words, that was all, three words and then his problems would be over and he would be able to get that annoying ache out of his chest and sure, maybe Zenigata wouldn’t like him any longer, resent him, even, but it would be  _ over  _ and he wouldn’t have to think about it. 

“...you smell terrible. When did you last take a shower?” 

Zenigata blinked, quite obviously not expecting this answer. He didn’t say anything for a moment, seemingly searching Lupin’s face for a break in his composure, looking for a deeper, hidden meaning, trying desperately to just get an answer out of him. However, Lupin knew that he knew that doing such was a lost cause, for there had been many times where this situation had occurred before. So, chuckling shyly and leaning back, he dropped the subject, and for that, Lupin was grateful. 

“Is it that bad?” He asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I guess I’ve just been so wrapped up that I didn’t have time,” 

“Well, now you have time,” Lupin smirked, arching an eyebrow as he crossed his arms, leaning against one leg and more than happy to ignore the previous question.

Even if he didn’t accidentally say something that revealed too much, any answer would still be strange. Wrong, even. Because Zenigata was right-- now matter how dearly he cared for the inspector, if he was unable to do his job in any way at all Lupin would have the world right in his pocket in an instant. 

Or, at least, that was how it used to be. 

For lately, even before he understood what was happening, what he was feeling, the thief found himself sacrificing things for Zenigata. Small things, yes, but sacrificing them all the same. A cigarette, a meal, a drink, and he had even given pushed back an entire heist just so that Zenigata could get some proper rest. It was clear that he cared more than anybody thought he did, including him, but it was always through simple things, things that weren’t even worth noticing, things that shouldn’t have meaning behind them.

Something this domestic, something this intimate, though… it was quite new to Lupin, at least when it came to people that weren’t his immediate gang. 

“I’ll take the hint,” Zenigata snorted, interrupting the thief’s thought process as, slowly and with a slight creak from the armrest, he stood, eyes half-lidded and ever-sleepy. Out of nothing other than basic instinct, Lupin stepped forward, reaching out to grasp the inspector’s hands, who thanked him under his breath. Not like he needed any help, really, but it was just one of those things that you do, like holding open a door or picking up somebody’s pencil if they dropped it. 

Zenigata’s palms slid away from Lupin’s, taking their warmth along with them as he strode toward the bathroom, arms moving to wrap around his waist, socks shuffling awkwardly against the flooring, and Lupin figured that watching him any longer than that would just be embarrassing for the both of them. 

So, worrying at his lower lip, he turned and began to pad quietly toward the kitchen, unlit cigarette continuing to bob up and down in his mouth as he walked. He should probably smoke it soon lest he accidentally eat it, for it had been glued to his mouth far longer than any cigarette ever ought to. That, or just put it away, but in all honesty, he felt a little bit obligated to finish it off after having it for so long.

Instead of doing anything about it, though, he crossed the kitchen over toward the window, preemptively shaking his sleeve down to his wrist and scrabbling at it with his fingers to push it over top the heel of his palm. The closer he got to the glass, the chillier he grew, what little warmth he had gained from being inside quickly being sapped from his shivering limbs and stiff fingers. Was it opened, or was it simply broken? Knowing his location, it most likely sported the latter fate-- and as the thief grew closer, his suspicions were correct. 

With the sleeve he had gripped to the end of his palm, he reached out and began to softly wipe down the fog that was clinging to the glass, each stroke revealing a new fresh view of the world outside. The condensation from the window soaked into his sleeve, chilling his wrist and making him shiver, and he nearly regretted wiping it down when, upon peering out, he saw nothing but a blurry haze of white. It was still blustery out, still stormy and messy and almost completely opaque save for a few blurry outlines of buildings across the street, nothing more than dark stains against the canvas. 

With a sigh that damn near produced a white cloud from between Lupin’s lips, he turned to lean against the kitchen sink, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders, trying to fold in on himself and create… some sort of warmth within the drafty little apartment.

From the bathroom came the tell-tale rumble of the water pipes, the sound resonating within the walls, shaking the whole world as Zenigata began his shower. Softly, Lupin closed his eyes against the noise, tilting his head back, leaning further against the kitchen sink, which he noticed quite suddenly for the first time had a drippy faucet. It hadn’t been fixed in ages, probably, and every so often there was a subtle  _ plip… plip… plip…  _ that hit the basin of the stainless steel, gathering into the smallest puddle that would eventually slip into the drain never to be seen again. It surely cost poor Zenigata a fortune in water bills. 

Worrying at his lower lip with ever-gnawing, nervous teeth, Lupin uncurled his arms and held his hands before him, opening his eyes with the softest flutter of his lashes, feeling sick as he gazed at the lines streaking across his palms, vision hooking occasionally on a thin, white scar or a slowly fading bruise. 

The urge to run was becoming more and more desirable, slowly but surely curling around him and promising that the pain he would be forced to endure would never happen if he simply up and left. 

From the bathroom, the stream of water was hitting the shower curtain, a subtle sound but a different one all the same, loud and pittering, almost like rain on a tin roof but harsher in some way, stronger in some way. Not the same, mind you, but just…  _ in some way.  _

Leaving was still an option, was it not? It had been an option  _ before,  _ right? Surely it had, for Lupin could’ve merely hopped inside the Fiat with his friends and forgotten all about this God-forsaken night. Which was something he was beginning to regret now that he thought about it, still staring blankly at his hands, which trembled ever so slightly. Was it from the frigid bite of December air that came with standing near the window, or was it from something else? 

The rumbling pipes continued. Deep within the walls, they hummed away, shaking the very foundation of the whole damned room. They were so loud Lupin was surprised nobody else had heard them, though the more he thought about it, the more he realized that  _ everybody  _ in the apartment heard each other’s water pipes. It was something that came with living there. 

Lupin allowed his gaze to drift away from his palms, instead opting to stare at the grout between the kitchen tiles, significantly cleaner thanks to him and his friends, but slowly beginning to get dirty again. Zenigata must’ve been real tired if he hadn’t had time to mop or sweep or  _ anything  _ since the gang had helped fix up his place just a little while ago. 

The door was _ right there. _ Effortlessly, Lupin could slip into the inspector’s room, take his coat, and leave unnoticed. It’d be the easiest thing he had ever done, especially with all of the noise. If he straightened up from the sink, he could probably clear the whole apartment in under a minute, which meant that he could be  _ gone  _ in under a minute. He wouldn’t have to say a damn thing, and at this point, he was ready to consider up and running a form of “letting go” just like Jigen had advised him to do earlier. If he walked away right that moment, if he left and never looked back, never returned to Zenigata’s apartment, then that would be it. It would all be over, and the weight could be relieved from Lupin’s chest. Right? Almost like magic, it would disappear, just like he wanted-- and that  _ was _ what he wanted, right? What  _ everybody  _ wanted. Feelings like this could never be reciprocated, much less understood by anybody who wasn’t batshit crazy, so forgetting about the whole ordeal… it would just be better. It had to be. 

The silence when the water was turned off was deafening, and Lupin froze in place, staring with wide eyes in the direction of the bathroom, a deer caught in the headlights of a car sure to leave it bleeding out on the side of the road. 

This was it. 

He had to leave now, or he wouldn’t be able to later. 

He still had time, didn’t he? Zenigata had to dry off, had to get dressed, he had to comb his hair or put lotion on-- though, let’s face it, he didn’t seem like the type to care much about his skin-- or brush his teeth or  _ whatever  _ weird thing he did when it came to hygiene. 

He could get out of there, he still had time. That drafty little apartment couldn’t hold him, there were a million ways to escape, a million exists. 

Each broken window with the wind whistling through its small, barely-noticeable cracks, each thinning point in the hastily wallpapered walls, each new and creative way to get out onto the minuscule balcony that you had to either shimmy out of the kitchen window to get to our scale the side of the storm drain-- and, that being said, the storm drain itself, broken and tin and weak as all hell, just barely holding itself to the apartment just like the clinging ivy that had long since died from the cold but was sure to be back come springtime. 

Hell, the front door was probably still ajar from the last time it had been closed, Lupin surely wouldn’t be surprised if it was; all he had to do was bump it open and then he’d be home free, he would be out. He didn’t mind the cold, he didn’t mind walking, he could find another building to sleep the storm away in, he could brave through the endless winds and violent torrents of blinding white snow, he didn’t care how deeply the cold fell into his gut or how stiff his fingers grew. He just had to get away. 

He  _ had  _ to. He  _ needed  _ to,  _ wanted  _ to, the urge was so strong it was almost painful, every nerve in his body shrieking at him, warning him of the danger that came with staying. His mouth was far too big and his tongue was far too loose, he knew damned well that if he didn’t get the hell out right this second he would say something, not on purpose, no, but it would slip between his teeth like the forked tongue of a snake, he would be found out, it would all come falling out in a flood of pent up, unused, forgotten love. 

“Now this is a shocker,” 

A chuckle emerging from the hallway snapped Lupin to attention, and his eyes wrenched open upon hearing the gentle shuffles of socks against hardwood, the scent of shea butter and cucumber dollar-store shampoo dancing around his nose. The apartment was so small the humidity could be seen from the kitchen, lighter, sure, but traces still lingered around damp hair and softened wrists. 

“I was surprised you came back the first time, but you  _ stayed?  _ I was making a bet with myself that you’d be gone by the time I came out, you know,” Zenigata sniffed, his voice slightly stopped up but significantly less so, most likely due to the steam as he leaned against the bartop-style counter separating the kitchen from the living room, drowning in another sweater that made even him look small (dark, muddy green instead of brown this time) with a mustard yellow tee-shirt beneath and plaid pyjama pants that bunched up around his ankles and nearly pooled along the floor. “I just lost my own bet,”

Lupin scorned himself for being so stupid, for not getting out while he still could. He was stuck, trapped, even, and the night was slowly ebbing away to make room for the morning, though he supposed it didn’t quite matter; with such thick, dark storm clouds billowing around the sky, the sun was sure to be completely obscured until the afternoon, or even late evening.

“How much do you owe yourself?” He forced himself to chuckle, the words sounding foreign and wrong on his tongue, almost as though it was somebody else speaking. To reply, Zenigata merely shrugged, cocking his head lightly to the side as he came closer. A shiver passed through him despite his layers of clothing, and a pang of guilt resonated within the thief’s chest. 

“Didn’t really think of that, I was sure I’d win.” Zenigata smiled. He now leaned against the countertop directly across Lupin, holding his arms close to his body, eyes half-lidded and wonderfully sleepy. His cheeks were dewy and soft from the heat of the shower, the bitten ends of his fingers quite the same, flushed bright against the dark contrast of his skin. Hair not  _ quite  _ dry yet, it looked softer than usual, darker than usual, but Lupin knew that it was nothing more than the rose-tinted glass piercing his eyes. “How long has that been there?” 

Lupin blinked, confused (and suddenly aware that he was staring), eyes darting around for something that he was missing. However, when Zenigata nodded his head toward his mouth, Lupin realized that he had been referring to the cigarette that had almost fallen out. 

“Oh,” he said quietly, reaching up and plucking the bad habit between his index and middle fingers, looking over it, remorseful that he had yet to smoke it. It might help to calm his frayed nerves, but then again, it might not. “I meant to do something about it earlier but it was too cold, remember?” 

“You’re waiting to go outside to smoke?” 

“Well yeah, your apartment has a policy on that,” 

Zenigata furrowed his brow, a gentle, confused smile tugging at his softened mouth, a chuckle drawn deep from his chest; low, rumbly, soft, sweet. “You’re… a goody two shoes,” he hummed, shaking his head lightly, and Lupin felt dizzy. “if you haven’t noticed, practically every damned thing in this place stinks of tobacco and nicotine,” he stepped forward, and when Lupin attempted to back away, he was acutely aware of the solid object behind him keeping him from going anywhere. 

He was completely powerless when, gently, Zenigata reached out upon stepping closer, fingers curling so softly around Lupin’s wrist, not wasting any time to tug the thief’s arm with just enough force to get him to get the memo. 

“Come on,” he said simply, almost as though his touch wasn’t burning welts into Lupin’s skin. “we just need to go by a window and you’re good,” 

Instead of replying, Lupin only nodded, shuffling wordlessly behind, staring at the way Zenigata’s fingertips pressed into the soft flesh of his wrist and feeling incredibly conscious about his disheveled appearance. He knew that the inspector wouldn’t care much, but he couldn’t help the way his cheeks warmed at the thought of their contrast when it came to being presentable in the moment. 

Nothing but the quiet sounds of fabric rustling and socks against hardwood, which soon changed to socks against the wool of the rug as the pair neared the window. Unsurprisingly, said window was unlocked, and when Zenigata dropped Lupin’s hand and allowed it to swing back to the thief’s side, he immediately moved to push it open  _ ever  _ so slightly, not enough to fully open it, but enough to filter out any smoke from the cigarette clasped nervously between Lupin’s fingers. 

Still not speaking, he moved away from the window and Lupin watched with a curious gaze as the inspector perused the room, seemingly searching for something, fingers running across every surface whether or not it contained the object in his mind’s eye, murmuring nothing in particular to nobody in particular. 

Confused, curious, Lupin watched from the cracked window, subconsciously wrapping his arms around himself to keep the cold from gnashing its jaws at him (though he was failing miserably). He wanted to tell the inspector that he didn’t mind all that much, he could just smoke later, it didn’t matter, but he was also intrigued about the events unfolding before him.

At long last, with a soft hum of triumph, Zenigata emerged from behind the couch with the same blanket Lupin had used to cover him when he found him sleeping on the sunken cushions. There was something else in his grip, too, something small and hidden in his palm, but Lupin couldn’t quite see what so he simply watched with a glassy gaze as, lopsided smile, twinkling eyes, slow, unhurried gait, Zenigata approached him once more. 

“It’s cold,” he said upon returning to the spot by the window, immediately going to sit down on the floor much to Lupin’s curiosity. There was a pause, a beat of silence that fell over them as the inspector adjusted himself, sitting up against the ledge, legs drawn up to his chest before, with a sniffle, he reached out and gently patted the space next to him, palm quiet and muted against the rug.

Taking the hint, Lupin sunk down to the floor, mirroring the position as he too pushed himself up against the ledge, legs slowly sliding upward ‘til his knees were almost touching his chin. Immediately, the wind pushing through the cracked window lapped at his neck and arms and fingers and ankles, an involuntary shiver passing through his entire frame as he curled up tighter around himself, almost burying his face in the small area just between his legs, arms wrapping tightly around his shins. 

“Oh, grow a pair, you’ll be fine,” Zenigata teased, though he sounded similarly cold while he shimmied closer, scooting nearer and nearer to Lupin ‘til they were close enough to drape the blanket over both of them-- which is precisely what the inspector did. 

With a loud rustle of cloth, he swung the entire thing up and over both of their shoulders, allowing Lupin to grasp his own end with his chilly, stiff fingers as to not touch him. He pulled his half of the blanket in as close as he could without it tugging on Lupin’s half, and then huddled in close to himself, letting out a shaky exhale, sniffling lightly. 

“Sharing a blanket usually conserves heat-- something like that,” he said, obviously forcing words to fill the gaps, voice sounding strained and uncomfortable despite the fact that it was he who had made the suggestion. 

“You trying to get me to catch your cold?” Lupin teased, hoping with everything in him that a lighthearted joke would help ease the thick, heavy tension in the room. 

It did. 

Zenigata laughed softly, more of a hum, really, nose scrunching in that endearing way it so often did. Lupin tried not to stare, remembering what he was here for-- or, rather, what he wasn’t here for. 

“No, no, I’m not, don’t worry,” he sniffled, attempting to curl the blanket around just a little bit tighter around his shoulders, though instantly stopped when he felt Lupin’s side grow taut. Subtly, the thief took that moment to scoot just a little closer, hoping that it would be enough to help him warm up further without being pressed flush against each other. 

Absently, more out of habit than anything else, the thief drew his hand close to his mouth and took hold of the cigarette once more, chewing lightly at the filter and leaning forward to rest his chin atop his knees, unable to ignore the warmth he was feeling as it burned into his ears and caused his cheeks to glow bright red. 

“Oh, right! Sorry, I nearly forgot,” Zenigata stammered, and Lupin looked over, tilting his head lightly to the side as he watched the inspector reveal the second object he had come over with. A gas station lighter, the kind you buy with the clear plastic so that you can see the fluid sloshing around inside, the metal at the top worn and loose and probably a hazard in some way or another. 

“Right, thanks,” Lupin blinked, prepared to reach out and take it from him so that he could  _ finally  _ smoke the damned cigarette that had stayed in his mouth for eons too long. 

Before he could even lift his hand, however, Zenigata leaned closer, flicking the spark wheel all the while, using his free hand to poke Lupin’s chin toward him. With wide, dumbfounded eyes, Lupin crossed his eyes to watch as Zenigata’s enormous palm cupped the flame with the gentleness of somebody much smaller, those big, doe eyes never once leaving the dancing light of the flame as he waited for the thief to close the space. 

When he didn’t, the inspector glanced up, a small, puzzled frown on his face, eyebrows raised expectantly but not impatiently.

“Ah-- um, I’m sorry,” Lupin yipped, leaning forward and needlessly puckering his lips as to push the cigarette out farther and closer to the flame. The tip of Zenigata’s pinkie finger brushed lightly against his cheek, and as he shuddered from the contact, he inhaled deeply, waiting for that familiar sensation of warmth to come spilling out into his lungs. 

At last, he pulled back, cigarette finally lit after what felt like eons upon eons, and he tipped his head back to take in the relief that came with satisfying a nicotine addiction. 

The smoke of his first drag billowed out through his nostrils in torrents, and he sighed, shoulders almost instantly relaxing, eyes lidded and glassy.

“You were tense,” Zenigata smiled, and within his eyes stood an unfamiliar glimmer, one that Lupin hadn’t quite seen before, and if he had, he surely would’ve been dreaming. The glimmer made him feel small, made him feel queasy, made him feel acutely aware of his lips and nose and eyes and arms and legs and hands and feet and… everything, really. 

“...Guess I was,” he hiccuped in reply, feeling embarrassed and timid for no reason other than the fact that, in the dim light of the living room, Zenigata was beautiful and the cherry from the end of his cigarette felt like a furnace and his stomach was hotter than the core of the earth. “thanks for the light,” 

“It’s nothing, I knew you’d never get around to doing it yourself; you’ve been in some sort of trance all day,” 

“Have I, now?” 

“Are you kiddin’ me? I thought you had been smoking somethin’ else the way you were acting,” Zenigata scoffed, pouting out his lower lip and playfully furrowing his brow. 

Rolling his eyes, Lupin took another drag of his cigarette before plucking it from his lips, letting the smoke sit in his throat for a little while longer before letting it loose in a steady stream. “I was just tired of takin’ care of your ass all day, that’s it. You’re completely useless when you’re sick, y’know,” 

“Yeah, well,” Zenigata began, clearly not entirely sure what he could come back with. So, instead, he grumbled something indistinguishable and huddled in closer to himself, averting his gaze completely from the man next to him, who laughed. 

“Well  _ what,  _ Pops! Go on, say it,” he chided, reaching out with his free hand to offer a soft punch to the inspector’s shoulder. “geez, and you say  _ I’m  _ tense,” 

“Can it, weasel. I’m still a cop,” 

“Uh-huh. A sick one. Sharing a blanket with the thief you’ve been after for two decades,” 

“Ugh, don’t say decades, that sounds so depressing,” Zenigata groaned hoarsely, and the familiar tug of laughter met Lupin’s smile once more. 

“Does twenty years sound any better?” He teased, wishing that he were just a little closer so he could elbow Zenigata in the ribs lightly for emphasis. 

“It does not,” the inspector huffed, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was going to bury his face in his knees, mouth now lost behind his pants, nose just barely poking out over the top. 

Lupin hummed lightheartedly, drawing the cigarette close to his mouth once more and taking a drag, eyes fluttering closed, cheeks tinted rose. “Are you feelin’ any better?” 

“Huh?” Zenigata asked, turning to face Lupin as if he had just sprouted another head. 

“Well?” Lupin urged, though he was mostly teasing, the smile light on his face, eyes just barely squinted happily. 

All at once, the inspector’s features softened, shoulders sinking down, face relaxing a little, lips parted brows resting, head just  _ slightly  _ leaning forward, though it was clearly not intentional. 

Such an expression-- a vulnerable, sweet, intimate expression-- rendered the thief completely helpless, and his breath caught in his throat. He tried to take another drag of his cigarette to ease the stammer in his heart, but he simply could, arm refusing to move altogether, fingers almost limp as the cigarette burned away, ash drifting to the carpet to be rubbed into the fibers. 

“I feel pretty good now, yeah,” Zenigata said, at last, shattering the growing silence between the two as though it were thinner than tissue paper. “that stir fry was really amazing, I think that and the nap really helped me spike through the worst parts of the fever. It’s sure to be back tomorrow night, but for now, I think it dropped a bit,” 

“H-has it now?” Lupin managed to spit out, turning away from that odd, fond expression, instead opting to pull his knees even closer to his chest, another drag from his cigarette obscuring his face with smoke just for a moment or two. 

That familiar silence fell between them once more, though it was probably heavier on Lupin than the inspector, who merely hummed gently in response to the thief’s last statement, letting his eyes flutter closed, cheek smooshed against the tops of his knees.

Lupin just  _ had  _ to say something, his stomach was roiling, tongue twisting around itself trying to blab out anything and everything all at once. The silence was too much to bear, it had too many possibilities woven within its very existence, and with each and every second it continued on, Lupin found it was getting more and more difficult to try and let go of the man sitting so peacefully, so quietly, so sweetly beside him. 

“Oh, and, um. Thank you,” he finally spat out, the very edge of a panic attack slowly releasing him from its grip. 

Confused, Zenigata popped one eye open and looked out at the thief, searching his face for an answer to his question.

“for ah-- for finding my watch, I mean,” Lupin managed to finish, holding out his wrist and waggling to and fro so that the heavy face of the gloriously expensive Rolex tipped this way and that. “I was worried I had lost it for good,”

“That?” Zenigata asked dumbly, gesturing to the extraordinarily customized piece clinging tightly to the thief’s wrist. When Lupin nodded, he smiled, that very same smile from earlier, all soft and saccharine and completely oblivious to how it affected the poor thief. “I just  _ knew _ it was yours! I remember when I found it in my room I went through a mental list of all of the richest people I know-- and then, I realized that it could be a gift, but knew that nobody would ever spend so much money on someone else. So instead, I thought of all the people with the tackiest, most God-awful hideous sense of style when it comes to accessories,” 

Bashfully, Lupin turned away, a pleasantly embarrassed to hear that Zenigata thought he was rich--

\--wait,  _ huh? _

Whipping his head around, Lupin fumed. “What do you mean by that?! I have an immaculate and wonderfully stylish taste!” 

“You call  _ that  _ immaculate?” Zenigata snorted, pointing an accusatory finger at the watch. 

“Yes! Don’t you see the intricate placement of the sapphires? Those were  _ not  _ cheap, you know,” 

“I figured. So how many heists did that cost you, ah?” 

“You dick, it didn’t cost me an entire heist! I’m not that stupid, you know, I spend and save my money well, I never impulse buy,”

“Lupin,”

“Three heists, two of which I had to do all by myself because the other three didn’t wanna participate if it was mostly to pay off my watch,” the thief murmured, defeated immediately. 

The confession caused Zenigata to throw his head back in deep, booming laughter, snorting lightly inbetween, and Lupin realized that perhaps the embarrassment of admitting to own something so gaudy was worth the reaction that it caused. Almost involuntarily, he smiled, watching openly as the inspector’s shoulders shook and his smile covered over half of his face and the skin around his eyes crinkled just like it did on the bridge of his nose. 

As he came down from his joyful fit, his eyes opened just a peep and Lupin found himself caught in Zenigata’s gaze, frozen, nerves frayed. Forcing himself to move, he quickly took a drag of his cigarette to distract himself, the smoke hitting the back of his throat hard and almost making him choke, though thankfully, it didn’t. 

“Hey, by the way,” Zenigata began, the hint of laughter still clinging to the very edges of his voice, light and airy and all too affectionate. “how’d it get inside my apartment, anyway? You haven’t dropped by lately as far as I know-- have you?” 

The bliss from the inspector’s laughter was quickly cut short as Lupin realized that he very well might have just called himself out.

Was there a lie good enough to cover up something so enormous and obvious? Zenigata was bound to call his bluff either way, so which would be less humiliating?

Then again, he  _ was  _ a fairly good liar, so he might manage to forge a nice little story that would fool the inspector. But did he have the  _ time  _ for that? 

Cordially, Zenigata stared at him, obviously in no rush to reveal the answer and simply watching with a patient gaze and an understanding quirk of his lips that he probably didn’t even realize he was wearing. 

Telling him a lie would probably deter him from asking more about it whether he caught on or not. He didn’t seem likely to pry in this particular moment, and so to spout some bullshit as simple as the end of the watch getting hooked to Zenigata’s coat pocket the last time they had seen one another would probably good enough. 

Lying would make the topic fall apart, and the pair would have to move on to a new one, a different one, one that probably wouldn’t have anything to do with either of them at all. It would be simple, clean, easy-- small talk, really, most likely to do with the storm and how it seemed to be dying down (for, despite the wind’s wrath, it really did) or how Lupin’s cigarette was already half-smoked in the short time they had been talking or the whereabouts of Jigen, Goemon, and Fujiko on this harsh winter night. 

If he lied, there was no chance at all that he might accidentally spill his heart out to the man before him. He could tamper with the story as much as he wanted so that such a thing wouldn’t even be  _ remotely  _ possible, he could manipulate the conversation into doing a complete 180, it would all happen quickly, really, and he... and he could… let… go… 

In the silence that strung delicately between them, Lupin’s gaze met Zenigata’s eyes.

They were nothing to write home about. Simply brown, and that was all.

They were not rich, they were not yellow-hued or tinted with green and blue, they were not dark enough to obscure his pupil or light enough to make him look glass-blown and delicate, they were not incredible or breathtaking or staggeringly gorgeous. They were brown… 

...and yet, there was something so distinct about them. 

Not distinct like a wash of amber or flecks of gold, not distinct like turning the silkiest shade of caramel when the light hit  _ juuust  _ perfectly, not distinct like any of the glamorous, sparkling, gemstone eyes that Lupin so often found himself adoring.

Within Zenigata’s eyes was comfort.

Dancing in his iris, the feeling of cooking soup over a hot stove, the way the fresh, spring earth touches your naked feet, how good it feels when your best friend hugs you and squeezes  _ extra  _ tight. Leaning against a stranger’s shoulder on the train ride home, giving one of your gloves to somebody with bare fingers and then sharing pockets to make up for the missing warmth. 

There was nothing glamorous about this man, nothing beautiful or shocking or expensive or grand. 

But there was something that felt strangely like home. 

When Lupin’s lips parted and he began to speak, his decision had finally been made. 

“It’s kind of a strange story, actually,” he chuckled, shuffling no more than a centimeter closer. Zenigata didn’t seem to mind.

“All of your stories are odd ones, Lupin,” Zenigata replied instantly, and when Lupin attempted to fight back, he found that he couldn’t. So, instead, he gave a weary smile, and since he was now close enough to elbow the inspector in the ribs, he did just that. 

“Right, well, that’s neither here nor there,”

“Stop stalling,”

“I’m  _ not,”  _

“Lupin, I’ve known you for too long. Stop stalling,” 

“You’re so impatient,” 

“Lupin,”

“Fine, fine,” the thief chuckled, holding up his hands defensively as he racked his brain for the correct words. No matter how desperately he searched, though, he found none; there was no way to say this without it sounding like Lupin had been worried. He had been, of course, but Zenigata didn’t need to know that. 

Finally, with one more drag of his cigarette, breathing in the smoke ‘til it filled his lungs fully and letting it out slow, he reached back toward the window, slipped his hand through the small opening, and snubbed the cherry out on the brick outside of the apartment, letting the butt fall carelessly against the ledge before drawing his hand back in, rubbing it as though the action would get rid of the cold. 

“You were sick,” he began, quieter than he had expected. Immediately, Zenigata was alert and listening, even doing as much as to lean in a little closer to offer the poor, foolish thief his undivided attention. “you were sick and you weren’t willing to admit it. But I’m pretty sure everybody--  _ everybody,  _ Pops--” he snorted when Zenigata rolled his eyes. “--they all knew you were under the weather. And even when people tried to tell you, you were too stubborn to stop working, and so you just plowed right through. Heroic, sure, but also stupid as all hell,” 

“Are you explaining what you were doing in my apartment to me or just finding new ways to insult me?” Zenigata asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“Both,” Lupin replied curtly. 

“Ah,”

There was a pause, and in it, Lupin found himself smiling, Zenigata returning the expression instantaneously. There was something odd and funny about this whole interaction, both of them knew it, but it was only starting to sink in now. 

“Anyway, um… right! Yes, yeah, you were sick and you weren’t taking care of yourself, and to make matters worse, your boss was completely on your ass about the Barnett couple. Which meant that you were working late every night, and then when you came home, you just worked some more which was most definitely not a wise move on your part, you know,” 

“I know,”

“You’d better. So anyway, I noticed that you were a little sluggish, so I um. Well, I-- oh, this’ll sound weird,”

“I’m already weirded out that you knew how much pressure my boss put on me and that I was coming home late, so nothing you say will surprise me at this point,” 

“I guess that’s good,” Lupin scoffed, and Zenigata hummed, nodding. “alright, well, since I knew all of that shit, and since you obviously weren’t getting any better, I thought I might… help out,”

This caught Zenigata’s attention all over again, and he cocked his head, the smile dropping from his face, though the expression that replaced it didn’t seem negative. Only perplexed. “Help out how?” 

Lupin shot him a heatless glare. “If you’d let me talk, you would know,” 

“Right, right, go on,”

“Thank you,” the thief snorted, and his elbow met the inspector’s side once more in a playful, casual gesture. “I didn’t want you to notice anything, but I started to clean your apartment. Well, me and the other three, that is. We swept and dusted and vacuumed and mopped in hopes that maybe having a cleaner environment would help you with your work,” Lupin paused to take a short breath. “I guess I must’ve left my watch here by accident when I was washing your bedding-- which reminds me, I hope you like the fabric softener, I bought that with money out of my own pockets,” gaining confidence that had been hidden beneath the layers of confession, he tilted his head forward and winked, grinning a lopsided grin. 

When Zenigata merely blinked owlishly back at him, lips parted ever so lightly, brows raised, Lupin lost that confidence instantly. 

He was upset, wasn’t he? He was angry that, without his permission, Lupin had come waltzing into his home to do what  _ he  _ thought might help. Did it matter that his intentions were good? Was it enough that all he was trying to do was make things just a little easier on the Zenigata? He didn’t quite have experience with… whatever the hell he was doing, clearly, so he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he had crossed a line. 

Or perhaps, the fact that Lupin and his friends had broken and entered wasn’t what upset him. Maybe, he assumed that the thief was under the implication that he was unable to help himself, maybe he felt insulted that Lupin would dedicate so much time to something so foolish. Maybe he just liked things the way that they were, and maybe Lupin was up way over his head, and maybe he should have just lied, for if he had, he wouldn’t have to face the weight of whatever words were about to tumble through the crack in Zenigata’s lips.

“Lupin…” he began, expression shifting, though to Lupin it was akin to tectonic plates rumbling beneath the earth’s surface and creating an earthquake that was bound to leave him in rubble. 

He averted his gaze, suddenly quite interested in the grain of the windowsill, running his fingers along it and focusing hard on the grooves as they softly brushed against the pad of his thumb, taking note of the small, moss-colored paint stain, though such a hue wasn’t apparent in any of the walls. Perhaps, it had been left by previous owners, and somebody had painted over the walls but left the stain by accident. Idly, he began to pick at the paint with his fingernail as Zenigata searched for the right words. 

“...you…” the inspector murmured, and Lupin bit the inside of his cheek. 

What did Zenigata have to say? How bad was it? If it was taking him  _ this  _ long to produce any answer at all, he must’ve been seething with rage. Every muscle, tendon, and bone in Lupin’s body shrieked at him to get up and leave, he didn’t want to face the humiliation of being scolded by somebody who was able to floor him with little more than a smile. 

He was taking too long, the thief realized, he was taking too long and it was too much and God, the tension in the room was through the damned roof. Lupin’s breath shuttered and he worried at his lower lip as he opened his mouth to spill out a string of apologies--

“...you did all of that for me?”

Instantly, whatever Lupin was about to say melted off of his tongue and out of his brain as, shocked, he glanced back up to meet Zenigata’s eye. 

There wasn’t a hint of anger in his expression, not even irritation. He was completely calm, expression a little gentler than before, entire body seeming to lean forward in a strangely urgent manner, though there was no tenseness in any of his muscles. 

Slowly, Lupin nodded. 

“Yeah, uh. Yeah, we did,” he admitted sheepishly, biting his lip, reaching up to his right shoulder with his left hand to tug slightly on the blanket, not quite to get it closer to himself but, rather, to have something to do with his fingers. 

“But…” Zenigata frowned, the furrow in his brow creating soft wrinkles in his forehead. “but  _ why?  _ I mean, I get that sometimes we can all be pretty friendly with one another, but why the hell did you do that?” 

“Are you mad?” The question, more involuntary than conscious, slipped from between Lupin’s teeth with the same timid fear that a child would have after breaking a dish. 

“No, idiot, I’m not mad, I just guess I don’t understand. You went through so much trouble to keep my apartment in order-- I mean, hell, I’m not even here half the time, I’m chasing your ass halfway around the globe and back again, I don’t have time to live here, let alone keep it tidy. But you took it upon yourself to get the  _ entire  _ place clean… just because I was sick?” 

“Um. Yes?” 

_ “Why,  _ Lupin?” 

Scrunching up his nose and squirming where he sat, Lupin searched for a proper way to say what he was about to say without sounding like a total freak. 

“I just thought you needed help,” he sighed, leaning forward to rest his chin atop his knees. “you seemed so downcast, I couldn’t even get a rise out of you when I was actively trying to be obnoxious,” this earned an amused snort from Zenigata, but Lupin ignored it and continued. “you were just so tired, and when you kept going back to your apartment later and later I knew that I had to do something. I thought that-- I thought that if I managed to clean it up, you would feel better, that it wouldn’t be so empty or lonely for you. Maybe, with your apartment more breathable-- oh, don’t look at me like that, this place was so caked in dust it was practically antique-- you would be more productive. And if you were more productive, you would feel a little less shitty because you’d be able to come home sooner and you would make more progress with the Barnett case and you would be back on  _ my  _ case sooner than later because I absolutely hate it when you aren’t on my case--”

“You what?” Zenigata interrupted before Lupin could continue, eyes slowly widening with shock. 

The thief turned to shoot him a bemused look, not entirely sure what had gotten him so riled up about the confession. Thus far, it had been completely regular, but now Zenigata was gazing at Lupin as though he had just done something completely insane.

And then, heart dropping down to his stomach, Lupin realized that he did. 

His chest tightened as his brain went into overdrive, panic setting into his system like poison, mouth opening and closing as though he were a fish that had the misfortune of flopping up onto land. Did he  _ really  _ just admit to Zenigata that he hated it when he was working on other cases? Had he  _ actually  _ just said that, or was he imagining things? 

“What do you mean by that? What did-- uh, um. What did you mean when you said that? That you don’t like it when I work other cases because you… what did you mean?” Zenigata choked out. Was he closer than he had been earlier? 

“Nothing!” Lupin yelped before he could stop himself. “I don’t mean anything by it, not really,” 

“But why do you hate when I’m not on your case?”

“You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?”

“C’mon, Lupin, just tell me! I would think that you like the freedom it gives you. You know, to paint the town red or whatever the hell,” he finished that last part with a playful glare, a smile behind his lips. 

“It doesn’t really matter! It’s not much, it’s stupid, to be honest,” Lupin struggled as he turned away, looking for ways he could dodge the truth, for ways he could shift the conversation’s attention onto something else and be done with the whole ordeal. Surely there had to be something, right? If he could weasel his way out of dungeons and prisons and deathtraps, then surely he could weasel his way out of  _ this.  _

Suddenly, something warm and heavy fell onto his shoulder. 

Zenigata’s fingers were squeezing softly into the fabric of his shirt, palm pressed hard into him, and when Lupin’s gaze met his, there was something new in those brown eyes. Something like fear and hope and longing, something that Lupin was terrified of but at the same time  _ craved.  _

“It’s… well, I don’t know, I mean, we’ve known each other for quite some time, haven’t we? I couldn’t imagine doing heists  _ without  _ you getting in the way. It wouldn’t feel right to me,” he chuckled, unable to tear his mind off of how nice Zenigata’s touch felt. “or, well, rather, I guess it’s more than that, but not that much more, it isn’t really important. I mean, as in, I think it’s silly-- I’m sure you will, too-- it’s very silly, it doesn’t make any sense, I don’t… um. Well, you see I just...” 

Without warning, a familiar lump began to squeeze at his throat, and as he swallowed around it, he could feel the way it stung tears into the corners of his eyes. The pressure on his shoulder increased. 

“I don’t know, Pops, you were just gone for so long, I didn’t really know what to think about it. I thought that, at first, you had lied about the Barnett case because you wanted to pull a fast one on me, but when I realized that it was true, it was just…” He frowned, searching for the right words that would help cushion the blow of this dreadful conversation. 

No matter what he said at this point, Zenigata was more than likely to discover his secret. With the way he was acting, not to mention how misty his eyes had gotten, it was practically impossible to dance around the subject any longer than he already had been, and even if he tried, there was absolutely no way in hell Pops was gonna let something as emotionally intense as this swerve; he would spring back to the topic in an instant, and there wouldn’t be anything at all Lupin could ever possibly do about it to stop him. 

“I. Well,” Lupin tried to speak, but found himself fumbling over every syllable that graced his tongue. He was powerless, completely vulnerable-- and all because of one person. 

One person who he had defeated time and time again, one person who was never able to catch him, one person who he would never imagine thinking of in the way that he did, one person that Lupin would never expect that he would ever, ever,  _ ever  _ fall for quite so hard. 

But he did. 

He fell.

And there was no getting back up.

Gingerly, he reached up, fingers creeping apart as they neared Zenigata’s hand, pads brushing over hot skin, pushing into the soft flesh of his wrist, grasping it with just enough force for Zengata to release all pressure from Lupin’s shoulder. 

For a moment, silence fell over the pair, neither knowing what to do or how to do it. 

Zenigata’s expression was one of confusion, Lupin’s one of guilt as his hand squeezed tighter and tighter ‘til his fingerprints made shallow dips in the skin. Not a breath, not a word, not a movement between them, the air falling heavy into their open mouths and pushing every possible statement far from their drying tongues. 

And then, slowly, carefully, as though holding the most delicate artifact in all the world, Lupin brought Zenigata’s hand away from his shoulder. His own slid gently away from the inspector’s wrist, dragging over each hair, each scar, each knobbly joint, until at last, thin fingers met a wide palm, and Lupin was holding Zenigata’s hand, and tears were building higher in his frightened eyes, and his breath was stuttering so violently he feared he would cease breathing altogether, and as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the inspector’s knuckles, it felt like a prayer. 

“I missed you, Zenigata,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, eyes squeezing shut. “I missed you. That’s all. I missed you.” 

There was no response. Lupin did not move, though, his eyes closing tighter and tighter, lower lip less stiff than he was willing to admit as his chest shook with the fear and relief and searing pain that came with his confession. 

For that’s what it was, right? A confession. Not just of missing the other man, but harboring feelings for him as well. Because despite the fact that Lupin had never explicitly stated how he felt, never told the inspector directly, love dripped off of every word that poured from his lips, every tender action that the foolish thief took, every movement, breath, and glance. It was an overwhelming amount of love, even the most oblivious man in the world could’ve felt the sickening radiance of it, and Zenigata, though a lot of things, was certainly not stupid. 

When Lupin felt Zenigata’s hand begin to move, he did not fight it. Nor did he look up, his shoulders shaking too heavily, stomach twisting and heaving as tears that he didn’t even realize were there dripped pitifully onto the rug below, sinking into the fabric upon impact. 

“Lupin,” the inspector said firmly, and his voice did not quaver as Lupin’s did. 

The thief made no move to reply, too frightened to look up, feeling sick to his stomach. This was a bad idea, he shouldn’t have done this; he was an absolute idiot for even  _ thinking  _ that he could say something so… so vulnerable.

“Lupin,” Zenigata said again, and this time it was a little softer, a little quieter. This time, Lupin was acutely aware of the hand he had previously been clutching slowly, cautiously, carefully move to cup his cheek, which was hot and stained with tears that he didn’t know how to control. 

Upon the touch, Lupin finally turned to meet Zenigata’s gaze and was surprised to see that he was wearing an expression quite similar. There was fear etched into the lines around his mouth, and his eyes were blown wide, though his brows knit together anxiously. There was something he needed to say, something bubbling up in his chest and moving to his throat, but his tongue was uncooperative and he was silent, pupils flicking back and forth across Lupin’s face, who didn’t dare lean into the palm which was sure to draw back as though the skin of his cheek was made of flames.

Zenigata, however, did not pull his hand away, thumb rubbing into the soft flesh beneath Lupin’s eyes. The thief could feel how his fingers were trembling. 

In one easy motion, the cat drew the mouse closer, lips connecting with his forehead, pressing into his skin with such determination, such desperate neediness. 

And they lingered, they refused to move for quite some time, the moment frozen in place as even the howl and tear of the wind outside paused-- just for a second or so-- to allow the gesture to stick to Lupin’s brain. 

He pulled away slow, hand never once leaving the thief’s cheek, and in that instant, something wrenched inside Lupin’s chest and, turning to sit up on his knees, hands reaching out to cradle a stiff, surprised jaw, his mouth found Zenigata’s before either of them had time to understand what was happening. 

After a beat, however, Zenigata kissed back, turning what was once a fast, anxious, voracious kiss into something a little softer, a little sweeter, a little warmer, one hand drifting to Lupin’s waist as the other pressed into the back of his head, index finger toying with his hair. 

It wasn’t much of anything like Lupin had imagined. Not hot or heavy, not done under dire circumstances where neither of them knew whether or not they would escape with their lives, not even loud and grandiose.

Instead, it was strange and it was familiar all at once, the taste of coffee in the morning, whiskey in the evening. Long drives late at night with the windows rolled down, rain pattering atop the overhang of a building as you waited out the storm, laundry hung up in the springtime, fire crackling in the winter. 

And in that strange and familiar kiss, the fear melted away, leaving Lupin to lean closer into the warmth of another body, his lips slowly drawing toward the corner of Zenigata’s mouth as, tenderly, he pressed a kiss there. And then to the dimple on the inspector’s softened expression. And then his cheek. His jaw. Finally, his shoulder, which Lupin then buried his nose into, arms wrapping slowly around Zenigata’s neck, his shoulders still trembling with emotion. 

In return, strong arms curled around his waist and pulled him in, his knees growing far too weak to continue supporting him and, finally, buckling as he collapsed in a heap in front of Zenigata’s legs, which spread just enough so that their chests were able to be flush against each other. A kiss was gently planted on his hair, the arms squeezing tighter around him as Zenigata leaned forward, breath shaky. 

“I missed you, too,” came the rumble from the inspector’s throat, and Lupin chuckled weakly as the embrace grew tighter. He nuzzled into Zenigata’s neck, exhaustion weakening every bone in his body. “more than I even knew, Lupin. I missed you so, so  _ much.  _ I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” 

“You weren’t gone, you dolt. Just busy. And it’s not even something I should be worried about, I knew you would be back,” Lupin sniffed lightheartedly, his laughter ugly beneath his weepy voice. “but I am glad you’re here now,” 

“You’re going to get sick you know. I tried to make sure you wouldn’t by kissing your forehead, but now you’re going to get sick,” Zenigata chuckled as, slowly, Lupin pulled back, smiling wearily, but genuinely. 

“I don’t mind,” he replied, idly bringing his hand to pet the inspector’s cheek. “it’s worth it,” 

“But you’re so whiny when you get sick,” 

At that, Lupin laughed, open-mouthed, and teary-eyed as the tension drained from his body, spilling from his bones and muscles and skin, leaving him weak and tired and horribly in love (though, of course, he wouldn’t call it that. Not yet, at least) “Am I?” He giggled. “Good thing we’re snowed in then. You can take care of me,” 

“You haven’t forgotten that  _ I’m  _ sick too, have you, you jackass?” Zenigata chortled, his grin weary, his eyes kind. 

“Then we’ll have to take care of each other. Do you mind sharing a bed?” 

“Only if you don’t kick,”

“I don’t kick,” 

“Then no, I don’t mind,” the inspector hummed, leaning forward to bump his forehead to Lupin, whose eyes squinted happily and he pushed himself further into the gesture. “oh, why hadn’t you told me this sooner?” 

Lupin relished in the way Zenigata’s hand pressed into his side, still hugging him tightly as though if he let go, the thief would simply vanish. “I was afraid,” 

“Of what? Surely you knew how I… er, well. Those rumors about us didn’t stem from nothing, you know,” 

Lupin tilted his head, pressed a kiss to the space between the inspector’s eye and bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know what to think of those,” 

“I hated them,”

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh,” 

Another kiss to the temple, and then Lupin was back into Zenigata’s shoulder, closing his eyes, basking in his warmth. 

“It kept reminding me how much I like ya,” Zenigata snorted. 

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“God, no,” 

“Great to know you care, Pops,” Lupin spoke against the sleeve of his shirt, hoping that he hadn’t accidentally rubbed snot off on the fabric as his cheek smooshed up against his shoulder. “I didn’t like them either, though,” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. For the same reason,”

“Well. I don’t know about you but I’m glad they’re true,” 

Lupin gave a weak chuckle, wishing that he could simply sink into Zenigata’s arms, aching to be closer but all the same struck with disbelief that he would ever be able to find himself in this situation. “You sure this isn’t some big ruse to bag me, Pops? It’s a perfect opportunity to knock me out or cuff me or  _ something,  _ I’m pretty vulnerable right now,” 

There was a slight shift, and, holding tight to Lupin’s waist, Zenigata drew back, a light frown contrasting with the glow of his face. “I wouldn’t do that, you know,” he said quietly, voice so hushed that even in a room full of people, only Lupin would’ve been able to hear. Lupin swallowed hard, almost nervous in the earnest nature of the moment; Zenigata wasn’t joking, and if he was, then maybe he deserved to bag Lupin just this once, for the thief was thoroughly convinced. 

“You’d better keep your word then,” he laughed, hands drifting to rest on Zenigata’s arms, sliding down the length of his sweater sleeves as he leaned back on his knees, finally coming to rest on the rug, hands holding Zenigata’s gently. Slowly, he shifted so that one foot was positioned beneath him, doing the same with the other and, still holding tight to the inspector’s palms, he began to stand up shakily, knees a little wobbly, thighs a little weak, head a little hazy. 

“Tired of me already?” Zenigata teased, lifting his arms as Lupin stood, a playful smile quirking the edges of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I’ve decided after five minutes I’m bored of you,” the thief rolled his eyes. “c’mon if I’m the only one standing it’s weird. I want to make a pot of coffee,” 

“Really?” Zenigata furrowed his brow, using the leverage that Lupin offered as he pulled himself up, only stumbling a little bit but still managing to keep his balance. “It’s almost morning time. If you drink coffee now you won’t get any sleep at all,”

“That’s the point,” 

“But if you go to sleep now you’d at least get a few hours,” 

“I don’t want to go to sleep now, though. Do you want some?”

“Of course,” Zenigata’s response was immediate, and Lupin smiled, releasing his hands and turning on his heel to make his way toward the kitchen, mind still racing a million miles a second, heart still hammering in his chest as though it would break free at any time. 

Was this really happening? Or was it some sort of elaborate dream? That kiss had definitely felt real, so had the hands on his waist and the body pressing into his, but did any of those things really  _ mean  _ anything? 

He was ever grateful that  _ this  _ was the outcome of his sloppy confession. That Zenigata not only didn’t mind but reciprocated his feelings as well, that he had kissed back with the same amount of vigor. But would it last? 

Lupin stepped into the kitchen, socks sliding against tile, eyes wandering the expanse of the counter in search of the cheap, rust-red coffee maker that seemed to constantly be on its last breath. Zenigata found it before him, crossing over to the window above the sink, pulling it away from a bag of coffee grounds which partially obscured its existence as, lazily, he fiddled with the cord, unraveling it from its knot and directing the plug toward the socket right under one of the creaky cabinets, having to use the top one as the bottom one had electrical tape covering it and a warning jotted down on a worn-down sticky note to deter anybody from using it. 

As the inspector began to tap the grounds into the filter, Lupin couldn’t help the way he stared at each languid movement, each draw of breath, each subtle twitch from his large, careful fingers. He tried to imagine those same hands reaching around his waist to pull him closer in the early mornings, those hands that he had been running from a large portion of his life cupping his cheeks and carding lovingly through his hair and smoothing over his shoulders and lazily patting his thigh as he rode in the passenger seat of Zenigata’s shitty car. He loved the idea, probably more than he should’ve, really, but would he have it? 

Leaning against the countertop, he crossed his arms, a gesture born out of the chill in his skin from the window rather than irritation or concern. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Zenigata asked from the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the sink, hands softly gripping the edges as he casually slung one ankle over the other. 

“I’m not,” Lupin replied easily, knowing that bringing up such a topic  _ now  _ could possibly scare the inspector away.

“Come on, now, it’s my job to know your body language. What’s up?” Zenigata cocked his head slightly to the left, hands sliding off of the edge of the sink and being replaced by his elbows as he leaned back further, the coffee maker beginning to gurgle away loudly from where it sat beneath the floating cabinets.

Knowing that he was right, Lupin sighed, smiling sheepishly in his direction but avoiding eye contact. “I just want to know what happens next, is all,” 

“What happens next? Well, I suppose we drink coffee. And I can make you breakfast if you want, I’m a good cook,” 

“You know what I mean, asshole,” 

“I know what you mean,” Zenigata responded gently, the hint of a laugh shaking his voice. “I was just thinking about that, actually,” 

At that, Lupin looked up. “You were?” 

“Of course, I’ve been thinking about it for years,” 

_ “Years?”  _

“You have no idea,” the inspector sniffed, rolling his eyes, voice monotone, and Lupin chuckled lightly. “I don’t know exactly what this’ll look like, but I  _ do  _ know it won’t be a very conventional relationship,”

“Relationship, Pops?”

“Only if you’re willing,” Zenigata hummed lightly, before his tone took a turn for the more serious, though it was not grim as he stared at nothing in particular, eyes seeming to grow misty and far away. “I don’t have time to play around, Lupin. I’m in my forties, for God’s sake. Hell, I’ll be halfway to fifty soon, and if that doesn’t scare you away then I’m afraid I might just like you a little longer than you’re used to,” beside him, the coffee maker made a strange, strained noise, and the pair both turned their heads to shoot it an odd look. 

“I’m… not scared away by that, no,” Lupin said, slowly turning away from the machine to refocus his attention back on Zenigata. “it’s not like I’m some young hussy or anything, I’m thirty-eight, thirty-nine in less than two months. What’s a six-year difference between old men?”

“That’s fair enough,” Zenigata laughed gently, a forlorn sort of gentleness glimmering in his eyes. “I don’t think much will change between us if I’m being honest,” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I won’t be goin’ easy on you just because of this, and I know for damn certain you won’t stop being a thief just because you kissed me.” there was a pause, and in it, Lupin slowly pushed himself away from the countertop, walking across the kitchen to join Zenigata at the sink, leaning next to him, but not touching him. The ghost of a smile fell across the inspector’s lips. “But, I mean, think about it,” he continued, tilting his head to face Lupin, who mirrored the action with an inquisitive hum, his heart fluttering despite the adrenaline of the moment wearing off. “it isn’t as though we’re constantly at each other’s throats. We work together all the time, even when we’re on opposite sides we both know how to pause a moment and join forces. Ah, and don’t tell the others, but I  _ like  _ them, I root for you idiots even though I know I’m not supposed to,” 

“I’m definitely going to tell the others you said that,” 

“I’ll kill you before you can even get to them, I swear to God,” 

Lupin chuckled. “It’s not like they don’t know, or anything. We all like you, too,” 

“Yes, well,” Zenigata grumbled, his cheeks slowly staining a deep red as he looked away, coughing into his fist awkwardly. The coffee machine made another strange burble, but neither of them turned to look at it this time, both too distracted by conversation to care much. 

“You really think this’ll work, Pops?” Lupin asked after a beat when the inspector didn’t continue to speak, leaning in closer to rest his cheek against Zenigata’s shoulder, head still tilted back to be able to see him. “I mean, I know that it won’t be conventional, and I know it’ll be difficult at times considering our er-- professions, I guess,” 

“Your profession is being a dirty criminal?”

“I knew you were going to say something like that. Shut up, I’m trying to be serious here,” 

Zenigata giggled quietly, though the sound came more like a light rumble in his chest as, slowly, he leaned into the thief, dipping his head down to press his affections to the closest part of the thief he could reach, which happened to be his eyelid. The action made Lupin snort lightly, which soon turned into a small bout of laughter, light and careless and pleasant as it left his smiling lips.

“What were you going for, there?”

“I’m not sure, keep talking,” Zenigata responded, voice equally as airy.

“Anyway, I guess I’m just nervous, is all. Because I want you, I want to be with you, but I know that’ll be hard. How will we keep this up? How will this work?” 

The incessant gurgling of the coffee maker began to slow down, what was once a constant, loud growl turning into a dull roar, mere background noise in the sincerity of the conversation before it. 

“I guess we’ll just have to figure that out as we go,” Zenigata replied, nudging Lupin lightly with his hip. “we don’t have to think too hard on it, though. At this point, whatever happens, happens,”

“I was expecting you to be more anxious about this than me, if I’m being honest,” 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Take it how you will,” Lupin rolled his eyes, huffing pleasantly. “but I guess you’re right. These things just have to come naturally, and I don’t think there’s anything we can do to change them,”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” 

“What if it is?” 

“I don’t think it will be. We’ve managed to consider one another friends despite it all, right? And I know that this is different--  _ very,  _ very different-- but I think we can make it work. Just as long as you don’t mind me trying to arrest you in the morning but kissing you at night,” 

“I won’t. And if I steal an ancient relic and slip away from your cuffs one moment and go on a date with you the next, you won’t mind that, right?” 

“I won’t,” 

Lupin smiled. 

Zenigata smiled back.

At long last, the coffee maker fell silent, one last hiss signifying that their daily dose of caffeine had been fully prepared and was ready to go. 

“I guess now I have something to look forward to when I finally retire,” Zenigata snorted, breaking the serenity of the moment, and Lupin laughed aloud, so tired he could barely even think.

“Is that all I am, now?” He snorted, and when he felt Zenigata’s hand slip into his own, he held fast and he held tight. “A retirement plan?” 

“Of course! You’ll be loaded by the time you’re old and grey, we can finally just go quietly and I won’t have to worry about my next paycheck!” Zenigata responded, shoulders shaking with laughter, head lazily falling to the side as he spoke, eyes closing joyfully the same way a dog would when it gets pet. 

As the laughter died down, neither of the men noticed that the wind outside had finally done the same. Though the clouds didn’t move an inch, still covering the entire expanse of the grey, dark sky, the world was quiet, a thick blanket of snow muffling every care and thought in all of Miyoshi. 

Almost reluctantly, Lupin pulled himself away from the inspector, who watched him with a relaxed expression as the thief began to rummage around the cabinets.

“You know, the mugs are on the other side of the kitchen,” he remarked quite lazily, arching an eyebrow. 

“I know,” Lupin replied. “I’m actually looking for a bowl, I’m making an omelet,” 

“I  _ just  _ offered to make you breakfast!” 

“Yeah, and I never said no, did I?” Lupin chortled, at long last pulling out an old, white ceramic bowl and setting it gently atop the counter, the material clanking lightly against the surface. 

Rolling his eyes, Zenigata pushed himself away from the kitchen sink to join Lupin, who momentarily moved away from his spot to get to the refrigerator, having to pull a bit harder to open the door since it was old and shitty and oftentimes got stuck. 

As he reached into the cool shelves and pulled out the carton of eggs, he caught Zenigata pull out a cutting board and a pair of knives, the kinds with the red handles and the especially sharp edges that worked wonders for cutting vegetables in his peripheral. 

“You like onions, right?” He asked, gesturing to a large basket with red and yellow onions that stood adjacent to a silver cookie tin that had definitely not been used in years. 

“Yeah, I like onions,” Lupin replied softly as he set down the eggs, thumbing open the carton and watching lazily as the inspector shuffled across the kitchen, peering over the enormous wooden bowl with the same type of care somebody would take whilst searching for wedding rings, poking at each of the vegetables and rolling them around in his palms, the skins crunching lightly as he searched for one that didn’t have sprouts coming out of it or dark spots or soft patches. 

When he selected one, picking it up and tossing it between his hands as he walked toward the cutting board once more, Lupin met him halfway, standing directly in front of him and reaching out to take the fat yellow onion he had selected, gently prying it from his grasp as Zenigata peered down at him inquisitively. 

“...Uh-huh?” He chuckled, arching an eyebrow, grin lopsided and curious as Lupin turned around slightly to toss the onion onto the countertop, the vegetable hitting it with a heavy  _ thunk  _ and rolling a few paces before settling against the carton of eggs, a few of its thin pieces of outer skin flaking off in a small pile. “Any particular reason you did that?” 

“No, I just… ah,” Lupin smiled, turning back around to gingerly reach out, taking the inspector’s waist between his hands, whose breath stuttered only slightly, an eager smile slowly covering his previously curious expression. “I don’t know. I guess I still can’t believe this. I still can’t believe… oh, I don’t know. I don’t know,” Lupin repeated, chuckling, returning that same smile, teeth barely showing, eyes squinted happily as, slowly (and rather subconsciously), he stepped forward, fingers pressing more confidently into the inspector’s sides who, in turn, reached out to cup Lupin’s face. “I’m just. Glad, I think, is all,” 

“That so?” 

“Yeah, yeah that’s it,” the thief chuckled, tilting his head to the side as he leaned upward. “it’s weird but I like it,” 

“I don’t know how to take that,” Zenigata admitted, barely holding back his laughter, shoulders shaking lightly as he kissed Lupin. It was gentler this time around, and Lupin kissed back quite the same, fear no longer driving his lips as they pressed against Zenigata’s. When they pulled back, their kiss was no longer a kiss but rather an exchange of smiles. 

“It’s a good thing,” Lupin confirmed, dipping his head to close the gap between them, pressing his face into Zenigata’s neck, lashes fluttering lightly against shivering skin as he closed his eyes. “this is a good thing.” 

As Zenigata wrapped his arms around Lupin’s neck, one hand slowly drifting up to rest against the crown of his head, cheek leaning in and pressing against this temple, the thief realized that this moment, this  _ relationship _ was something that, until now, he had only caught himself dreaming rather feverishly about in the early, early hours of the morning. 

But now that it was real, now that it was genuine, it was gentle. It was sweet. It was nothing like Lupin could’ve ever imagined, and yet, at the same time, everything he had ever ached for.

And there in the kitchen, freezing cold and sleep-deprived, as Lupin and Zenigata held so delicately onto one another, the affection behind each kiss and embrace and subtle gesture and fond glance warming each joint and muscle of their cold hands, it was only just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap!! i think i'll really miss writin this one, it was tons of fun :'-] as always, thank you so so much for reading, it genuinely means a lot to me that people actually see what i post,,,, like that just boggles my little peabrain so much wtf,,,, kissa ur forehead,, thank u forever
> 
> also happy (late) new year, here's to hoping 2021 wont be absolute dick 🍾🥂 love ya


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